


Constantinople

by sandausdenurnen



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sort of major character death but not really...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandausdenurnen/pseuds/sandausdenurnen
Summary: The Hargreeves arrive back at 2019 only to find out they exist no more. Daddy has his new pets. No apocalypse to avert. Just some good old homelessness and struggle to make a living in a cold, uncaring world.Only, somehow, they do exist. Just not as themselves.A season 3 speculation fic, only instead of serious speculation it's an ensemble of what I'd like to see Five go through in the show that probably would never happen.
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves/Lila Pitts, Number Five | The Boy & Allison Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Diego Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Luther Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Everyone
Comments: 39
Kudos: 138





	1. Istanbul not Constantinople (1)

**Author's Note:**

> So I did it. I dug my own grave and now I have two fics on hand. Great :)  
> This is the English version of my own fic 君士坦丁堡（https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541747/chapters/67357756）, translated entirely by myself :)  
> The reason I wrote this one so quick was because, hey we got a Season 3! And if I don't finish this one before S3 airs that'd be really awkward. 
> 
> I try to stick to canon as much as possible, hence the Allison&Luther relationship. However there won't be anything explicit between them in the fic. I hope this won't be a huge issue. 
> 
> Again, English is not my first language so please bear with me if you see errors. Please do not hesitate to pick them up and let me know!

> _‘Everyone has two pasts,' replied the magician. 'One is called Slowing; this past grows with the person from birth and moves towards death. The other past is called Sliding and it follows the person back to his birth. These two pasts are not of equal length. Depending on which of the two is longer, a person either does or does not fall ill from his death. In the case of the latter it means that the person is building his past on the other side of the grave as well and so it continues to grow even after his death. The truth lies between these two pasts…’_
> 
> _Last Love in Constantinople_

1.

The light at home made you tremble. Why did no one ever notice? What a closed hall it was! The grids of the high windows hung over your head like skeletons. The fire in the fireplace was ever so quiet, but somehow you could still smell the burnt ashes within it. The portrait over the fireplace loomed like epitaph, no matter whose face was drawn on it. The faded golden frame imprisoned him, leaving nowhere to flee (He would always sit like that, one arm lying impotently on his side. Was this drawn on purpose?). The distant front gate never let any sunlight or fresh air through, not to mention layers and layers of granite columns stacking up like prison bars, and staircase rounded like funeral bouquet. Even during daytime, the living room rimmed with the colour of dark blue, akin to polluted waters. So much so that even with the one and five other people standing in front and above them (Or seven people, maybe? Was that floating green cube an actual person or just some sort of weapon?), blocking most of the sunlight, they still looked surreal, ghostly even, and they certainly appeared less depressing or suffocating than the house itself.

Why did no one ever notice?

The Hargreeves who were no longer Hargreeves thought at the same time.

This house had long since been a graveyard.

The call kept going to voice mail. The voice cue was default “the person you called is not available, please leave a message…” without mentioning the called person’s name. Allison would not give up, kept on dialling. She called and called. Luther stood beside her, watching her expression turn from the initial nervousness and fright, to anxiety, to rage, to desperation. Now she did not even look scared, just robotically pressing the hang-up and re-dial time after time, pale as a statue. Outside the phone booth, Diego buried his head in his shoulders, his hands in pockets, walked back and forth franticly. Klaus leaned on the fence in front of the Academy, gazing blindly into the waves of traffic, the cowboy hat spinning unconsciously in his hand. Vanya sat on the road kerb, face buried in palms. Five was further away, kneeling in front of a bench, checking the briefcase. He still held out a shred of hope, that maybe the briefcase malfunctioned, maybe…this was all an error in the system, not permanent. He did not permanently erase his entire family from existence…right?

Allison hung up the phone once again, hesitated for a moment, then dialed a different number. After a period of ring tone, someone on the other side picked up.

“He, hello…Patrick?” Her body stiffened again with fright; voice almost broken.

“Speaking.” The male voice replied, very polite and confused, “Who is this?”

“Allison…It’s Allison.”

“…Allison? Sorry it doesn’t ring a bell. Could you maybe give me your full name?”

Allison’s heart sank. The phone fell off her hand without her even caring.

Luther caught the phone on time, then caught her too, as she almost passed out.

Tears rolled off from her blank, widened eyes.

Diego used up his last change and bought a newspaper, wandered around a bit, flipping through some entertainment magazines. Not unexpectedly, he found no trace of Allison in any of them. He did find Patrick though—Allison’s ex-husband (or perhaps her ex-ex-husband). He had a white wife, and a whiter-than-white son. Diego’s heart twisted in pain—this is going to destroy her. He thought.

Klaus showed up unannounced behind him, grabbing one book while dropping another, then raised his stare: “Hot dog? You want hot dog? I want some hot dogs.”

“Hot dog?” Diego glared at him, “We just got erased from this world; Ben is still alive, and he’s Dad’s favourite pet now. I lost my job, Allison lost her daughter, and you want a hot dog?”

“…What else am I supposed to do?” Number Four gave his distinct innocent-but-highly-irritating type of look, opening up his hands, “We are all homeless now. Not that I wasn’t homeless to begin with…The only difference is that Ben doesn’t know me anymore. Hey, do you think if I go back, talk to him about our Ben, he’d let me join? Maybe go grab a drink or something? He quite literally shared a body with me…”

“You’re unbelievable.” Diego made a remark, then walked past him without looking back.

“Allison…” Vanya heard the phone booth open and stood up immediately. She already prepared herself mentally but seeing her sister’s face still broke her heart. She never had a child herself, but losing Harlan, and losing Sissy, she could at least feel a part of Allison’s grief.

She wanted to say something but was interrupted by Allison’s hand gesture. She looked so frail. Any word of comfort could crush her.

Vanya did not see Five coming. Her back was facing that bench. If she had noticed, maybe she would have stopped him. Then whatever happened next would have been avoided…But when she realised Five was here, he had already started to talk. His tone of voice sounded no difference than usual, calm, pragmatic, brief and direct: “So what did you find, Allison? You found Claire?”

The name “Claire” struck Allison like a sword. Her emotion surged out of her like blood from a wound. She could no longer hold them in.

“No, Five, I did not find Claire.” She spit, word by word, through gritted teeth, “Because she’s gone.”

Five’s eyes widened, but not due to surprise. Vanya realised he did not ask the question out of ignorance, nor to sting Allison, but just for confirmation. Now he had got it, he was ready to move on to the next pressing issue, but Allison was far from moving on.

“Do you understand, Five? My daughter is GONE! She doesn’t exist anymore!” She started yelling, tears washed down her face like rain, “My little girl…I could give anything for her. I could give the world…But now she’s gone. I’ll never see her again, just because--”

“Allison…” Luther walked up, his eyes watering as well, but he still had some reasons in him. He wanted to stop Allison from saying the rest, because he couldn’t bear to hear them, but he couldn’t bear to blame her either…

“Just because _you_ took us here.” Allison said; her voice filled with grief, fury and cruelty.

“I left Ray, left everything I had, because I thought I could finally see Claire again. But no, it wasn’t that simple, was it? Time travel is a mess, isn’t it? You said it yourself.” She continued, “And now I know.”

Five did not respond. He did not even show any visible expression, just stood there, his body stiff, listening to every word Allison spilled. Vanya didn’t know what to do. She felt that she should step up, calm Allison down, because she knew whatever was coming next could only be more hurtful, and meaningless, because what was done, was done. But she did not. Somewhere deep within, she felt the same rage as Allison. She missed Sissy and Harlan like crazy. Somewhere deep within, she wanted to cry, to break down, she wanted to say—

“If I knew you’d fuck it up I should have just stayed in the Sixties.” On top of Vanya’s internal thought was Allison’s trebling voice. “I should never have come back with you.”

Diego and Klaus ran into Allison right as they were leaving the news agent. She hung her head, walked fast, and passed them without looking up.

“Hey where are you going?” Klaus shouted.

Luther followed her closely but stopped for a second to pat on Diego and Klaus’ shoulders. “I’ll stick with her.” He exchanged a trusting stare with his brothers. “Keep in touch.”

Diego nodded. Then he walked up to Five and Vanya.

“That went about as well as I thought.” He said ironically.

Five was silent. He seemed to be still contemplating what Allision had just said.

“You checked the briefcase?” Diego did not watch the drama unfolded here just a minute ago, so he did not notice the unnatural silence of Five. “Did it malfunction?”

“…No.” With a deep inhale, Five spoke again, voice rather calm. “The briefcase is good. We didn’t jump across timelines. This is the timeline stemming from the 60s where we came.”

“So we really are collectively unadopted…?” Klaus moaned softly. “Should be careful making wish to stars I guess…”

“Somebody’s brilliant idea of finding Dad really worked out.” Diego scorned, “Now look at us. We don’t have a Dad no more. We don’t have an identity, no social security number. We’re basically homeless.”

“Diego…” Vanya raised her voice weakly, “We all went to see Dad. We all agreed on this.”

“Yeah, but he’s the genius that came up the idea, isn’t he.” Diego pointed to Five.

“And you’re the genius who wanted to kill Dad.” Five bit back. But his voice was weirdly flat, exhausted, didn’t event sound like an argument. “If we follow your idea, we’re still gonna get collectively unadopted.”

“But I’m gonna feel really good that way.” Diego said, as he walked across the road.

“Where are you going?” Vanya asked.

“Throw myself into another loony bin.” Number Two said without turning his head. “At least it’s much more comfy than the one in the 60s am I right?”

Klaus watched as Diego walked away, then his eyes turned to the Umbrella Academy— _Now it’s the Sparrow Academy_ —building, made a “whatever” gesture to the wind, and stepped into a seemingly random direction.

“Sometimes I’d still look around for him, you know?” As he strolled past his siblings, Klaus said, as if talking to himself. “I’d make a joke, then look over to see his reaction. But he’s not there.” He paused, as if waiting for some kind of reassurance, but ultimately didn’t get any. So he lowered his head, and wandered off, alone.

Only Vanya and Five were left.

Only at this moment did Vanya felt a delayed rush of horror, emptiness and anxiety. In front of her, an estranged world awaited, where she had never existed, never left a trace of being, like a boundless freezing ocean. She had felt lonely when sitting at the Academy’s dinner table; she had felt lonely playing violin by herself, in her tight little bedroom, when everyone else were out on mission, playing with each other; she had felt lonely packing up and leaving the Academy; she had felt lonely in her tiny single apartment, cold, worn, hearing the water pipe pounding from within. But all these loneliness seemed small compare to this moment, like stars to the Universe. Vanya turned back and looked at Five, feeling almost strange to see him, as if he was part of this world but she was not. She couldn’t figure out why, but she did something irrational, even surprising to herself: she left Five, the only person in this world who knew her, and walked off alone, confused.

Five did not stop her.

When Five finally moved again, he turned and saw Reginald·Hargreeves standing on the top of the Academy stairs, unexpectedly. His forever stern eyes, always seemed to be staring at some experimental apparatus, coldly observing Five through that shining monocle.

“I’ve got one question.” Five said, without moving closer. He did not raise his voice either, knowing Reginald could hear him. “Was it something I did?”

“No.” Reginald replied swiftly. “If anything, you did me a favour. Helped me avoid a failed project.”

Five scoffed, like a sharp stone thrown into the air. Then he lowered his gaze, looked at the ground, at his own knees (they were covered with bruises and dirt), onto his uniform shorts, his vest, blazer, and the Umbrella Academy badge on it. He mocked, softly: “And yet I was the one who apologised…”

He looked up, glancing once again at the strange yet melancholic street, inhaling the leaden air filled with car emissions, watched as the dusking light slowly shrouded the skyline. There was nothing left for him here.

Just when he decided to leave, Reginald called out from behind:

“You’d better look after your primal family of brothers and sisters.” His voice contained no hatred, nor the slightest respect for another human being. “I’m letting you off the hook, for now. But if any one of you dared to make a scene in this world, the sparrows will hunt you down.”

Five froze. His shoulder tightened up unremarkably, then he turned again.

Reginald’s jaw quivered a little. For a moment, the boy at the bottom of the stairs, looking even smaller than he was at a distance, seemed to be an entirely different person from the well-mannered gentle kid who once sat at the bar and drank with him.

Five’s eyes sharpened like the edge of a bronze blade. He glared at Reginald and smiled, word by word: “Then they should look out for hawks.” His smile, now deprived of any emotion or restraint, was merciless, and extremely condescending.

“Many birds of prey up there. Even more gun points down here. Sparrows are no predators. I’d advice they mind their own business.”

2.

Scott spat again. Even his spits were bitter.

He had lost the last cent, the last bracelet, metal piece…If his boxer worth anything he would have torn it off, in public, but unfortunately it didn’t. Or maybe he wasn’t wearing any? God he couldn’t remember. He’s too drunk. He cursed all the way to the corner of an alley, looking for some cigarette butt he could still crack on. He did find one. So he picked it up, lit it with a match, not caring for the slightest if it came from someone with tuberculosis or bird flu. He sucked on the cigarette passionately like an infant sucking on a mother’s breast.

A lonesome footstep approached, light and casual. He didn’t care to look at first. Maybe another luckless bastard gambler. Maybe just a dog. He kept on smoking, nurturing that weak flame with both his hands in fear of it extinguishing. The footsteps moved closer. Then he heard a kid’s voice—the kind boys had, going through voice change, a little scratchy, sometimes fragile—coming from under his chest.

“Hey, stoner boy.” The kid said, “You wanna win some money?”

Scott looked down. A dark-haired boy stood in front of him, briefcase in one hand—that briefcase was almost half his height—a nylon bag in the other. He gave the nylon bag out to him, looking as if he just found it in the trash. He couldn’t be older than fourteen. He had this very hypocrite, over-exaggerated smile.

“…What you talking’bout?” Scott felt his tongue swollen, glancing around to make sure. “You talking to me?”

“Anyone else smoking a used cigarette butt near a stinking garbage bin?” The boy said with surprising smoothness, “Yes I’m talking to you. You wanna win the biggest prize of your life, young man?”

For the first time in his life, Scott felt he’s had one drink too many. He stared up and down at the boy, trying to figure out if this was a hallucination. If not for the last shred of morality he did not even know he had, he would have put his hand all over the boy, from his pretty, delicate, rich mug, to his tiny, almost skin-and-bone thin ankles wrapped in those knee socks, just to make sure this was not a fever dream after drunk.

“…What’d’you mean?” He slurred.

“You know how to do basic math? Adding? Subtracting? Multiplication? That sort of thing?” The boy started to act inpatient.

Scott nodded slowly. He did go to college after all—Accounting—seemed like a lifetime ago. He dropped out after a year, then threw himself in bars, Casinos and benches in parks. Life was never a fair game. Life was like gambling: you never got what you paid for, and someone with a bit more luck could throw you under the bus easily. Life was designed for you to lose, just like every Casino. So why not just…gamble it away?

“Good. Here, you follow this calculation and go play some Blackjack.” The boy gave him a piece of paper, with some higher-than-kindergarten level, but still pretty basic equations on it, which Scott understood easily. He almost became an accountant at some point.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“A little bet I had with someone.” The boy said, “when I was twelve. I bet I could write an algorithm to win every game of Blackjack. And I did.”

The sentence sounded like “I went to the future to see the next lottery jackpot”.

Scott took the paper, blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Why should I believe you?”

The boy said nothing, just took out a hundred-dollar bill,

Scott snatched it immediately, faster than a starved cat, then ran back to the Casino.

“Fifty-fifty!” The boy shouted behind him. “Fifty-fifty on what you won! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

About two hours later, Scott strode out of the Casino with a bag full of cash, feeling light-headed. He thought he was walking on clouds, totally forgot having passed through this alley once already, picked up a cigarette butt, ran into a very peculiar kid, and his “fifty-fifty” warning.

As he held on tight to the nylon bag, tighter than holding on to his own life, and walked past the garbage bin, the boy leaning on a lamp post stood up, blocked his path.

“Took you long enough.” The boy said, “I’m surprised they didn’t chase you out an hour ago.”

Scott fell back to reality. He remembered the piece of paper with equations scrabbled all over it, remembered this wasn’t a dream.

“Hey! Don’t forget my half.”

The boy sounded sure of himself, relaxed even, that he seemed not worried at all Scott might not hold his end of the bargain.

That’s where he was wrong.

Scott had never seen this much money in his life. He was not prepared to share a single coin with anyone, not even for a look. Those were _his_ money.

He ran over the boy like running over a stray dog.

What he did not know: the boy rolled his eyes behind him, as if he knew this would happen, as if saying “I am so done with people being stupid”.

The next second, the boy flashed in front of him, out of thin air. His slender, brittle little hand stretched out.

“Now give me my money.” He said, “And you won’t get hurt.”

Scott glared at him in disbelief.

“Get the fuck out of my way, you scrawny piece of shit.” He said, “Or I’ll smash your pretty face in, snap that duck neck of yours.”

The boy raised one eyebrow, not flinching at all. On the contrary, his expression became more aggravated.

Scott inhaled deeply. Then he clenched the hand that was not holding the nylon bag and lashed out, with all his might.

His strike went into nothing.

A heavy blow landed on him, to his disbelief, and not in front of him but from behind, right on the back of his head. He kissed the floor almost instantly.

The boy was no longer in his line of sight. Instead, the footsteps approached from behind him, then a bin lid dropped. He saw those skin-and-bone thin ankles again. Those Oxfords and knee-high socks.

“No, no no no…” Scott whimpered, clutching the nylon bag to his chest. He wasn’t about to let go. This was his only chance. He would never get such luck the next time…

The Oxfords struck him mercilessly on his face, once, twice, with a strength and ferocity far beyond the capacity of a 14-year-old. His mouth and nose started bleeding. He thought his nose must have broken. Once again with great strength, the boy snatched the nylon bag out of his grab.

“Why people value money more than life itself? I could never understand…”

Before losing consciousness, this was the last thing Scott heard.

“Keep the paper. Take that as my pity on you. Pathetic waste of skin.”

The scratchy, fragile voice twisted, and drifted away. After that was an endless, eternal darkness.


	2. Istanbul not Constantinople (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luther realises the repeating theme of his life. Klaus lost Ben but finds someone he should have lost a long time ago. Diego got rich overnight.  
> And Five being Five, still tries to resolve everything.

3.

“Allison…Allison!”

Luther eventually caught up with her.

“Hey, Allison! Don’t do this…Talk to me!”

He grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around.

And he almost regretted immediately, as he saw her face—the calmness masked solely by rage and resentment a minute ago had collapsed entirely. Her face was a mess, like a crumpled piece of paper, tearing up, drooling and nose running at the same time.

“No…no, Luther…” She whimpered, choking on her own breath, “Let go of me…Just…leave me alone!”

“No, I will never!” Luther said, squeezing her shoulders even harder, could not care less about the pain. “Especially now, Allison. I would never leave you alone to face all this.”

“I can’t…” She wheezed, “I can’t…I can’t stay here…I can’t face them…I have to go…”

“I know. I know.” Luther tried to comfort her with voice alone. “I understand. And no matter what you do, I’ll be there for you.”

“No…No. I need to…I have to find her. I gotta make sure--”

“Yes, yes. We’ll go find her together. Whatever coming out of this, we’ll face it together…”

“No, Luther. You don’t understand…” Allison tried her best to get out of his grab. “If she’s really…really gone, I have to…I have to go to someone else…At least I know he existed--”

Luther’s arm slid off. He knew who she was talking about.

“I know…I know maybe there’s nothing there. After all these years, he could have been…” Allison sobbed again. But her face was a bit calmer. Knowing something existed for sure had rendered her less helpless.

“I need to see it with my own eyes, Luther. Even if it was just his grave…I gotta go see Raymond.”

Luther could not tell the feelings that lingered on his heart. A sting? Envy? Self-deprecation? But he clearly remembered how he felt the first time he stood in front Raymond’s door—shock, disappointment, and shame. Shame for his blind optimism. Shame for his being too late, for the expectation he had that he couldn’t even tell for what. Shame was the theme of his life. He had lived most of his life in shame. He had felt shame every morning when he woke up, taking off his pyjamas; he had felt shame when he turned on the shower, seeing the first drop of fresh water rolling down his discolourised skin; he had felt shame as he failed his father’s expectations; he had felt shame for being left behind; shame for the moon…a mission which he proud himself to be on only to find out this was just a convoluted way for his father to send him away.

Shame had nested in his heart, seeding its spawns sneakily in every imperceptible corners. Gradually, he felt ashamed even for hoping, thought of them as unachievable fantasies. He felt ashamed for every ounce of happiness.

He did not know what he wanted from Allison. _If she accepts him, would the shame finally go away?_ Was this the only reason? Because she was the only person who showed even the slightest admiration, the slightest caring for him? So he couldn’t let go. He feared if he had lost Allison, the world would greet him with constant hatred, scold and rejection. Was that all there ever was?

“I don’t care who you are going to see…” Luther said, in a slow, struggled tone, “I just want to be there by your side, because I hate to leave you alone…” he swallowed, “Just like I hate to be left alone.”

Allison looked up to him in a surprised gaze. The tears on her cheeks dried up a little, but her eyes were still red.

“We are a family, Allison.” Eventually Luther said. “The past few days had been crazy, ridiculous, horrible even…but we pulled through. Because we had each other. I don’t want to do things by myself anymore. I know you don’t either. If you don’t want anybody else see you like this, at least…at least let me stay. Please. I need you too.”

 _Shame! Shame on you!_ The voice inside him yelled expectedly. _How dare you, hoping for someone else’s attention! How dare you speak of your own needs! No one gives a shit about you! You are making a clown out of yourself._

Allison stared at him with wide eyes.

 _You’ve got nothing to pay her back!_ The voice said. _You need her, but she doesn’t need you! What could you possibly give her, huh? You deformed, stinking, inept animal! You had no value to be desired!_

She raised her hand, patted him on the shoulder, then touched his face. Only then did he realise he had teared up as well.

 _Shame!_ The voice grew louder. _You cried like a baby! Who would’ve wanted to see you like this? Who would’ve desired someone like you? A weak, weeping man. What good would he be?_

“Oh, Luther.” Allison whispered, hugging him with great tenderness. “I’m so sorry…I was so full of myself. I never thought about what you might feel…” She took his hand. “Of course I want you by my side, Luther. We’ll go look for Claire together. If we couldn’t find her, then we’ll go to Dallas, together. Maybe Ray is not in Dallas anymore, but we’ll find him.”

He stared at her hand in confusion, having an almost out-of-body experience. The voice in his head still rumbled.

“We’ll find him, then we’ll find a way. To live on in this world.” She said, soft but with unshaken faith, wiping tears off of her jaw. “There gotta be a way.”

Her voice was truly magical—Luther thought. Because, even if she did not start with “I heard a rumour”, he already believed her. He would believe every single word out of her mouth.

And only in that moment, the voice in his head finally quieted down. Even if it was just for a moment.

Klaus could not stand the silence.

Sure, the street was filled with all kinds of noise: The noise of car engines dying down then starting up again; the noise of tires scratching the road surface; the noise of the pumping pipe at the rear of a truck; the noise of the homeless guys and their dogs—when he passed by, they would whistle, calling him out with nasty names. He would turn around, giving out a flirting gesture, then they froze. _Bunch of cowards_ —the noise from an old TV set in a pawn shop; the noise of pop music ringing out of a speaker from a disc store.

Among these noises were not his. No Ben’s voice.

No Ben’s voice screaming “Let’s go see a movie”. Sometimes he just wouldn’t shut up. “I’m so bored!” He’d say. Or something like “I want to eat. I want to (see you) eat. Sell those marijuana and buy some KFC. Please! I want wicked wings so badly!” “Did you see that guy? He was masturbating to a pet shop window! I’m sure of it!” Or something like “Let’s go to an arcade. Hey, I want to play some claw crane.” But sometimes, he’d be weirdly quiet. He would walk alongside him, like the ghost that he was, silent, watching the material world passing through him one thing after the other. He would be like death itself. In those moments, Klaus would feel regrets. He felt as if he had just killed a man—in death, it seemed he could still kill someone. He killed the chance for Ben to truly die.

But a while later, Ben would go back being annoying again, urging him to see a movie, or to sneak into a theatre, or read a book, because he wanted to read a book himself. If Klaus ignored him, he’d start cursing and swearing. He’d bring up every single stupid thing Klaus had ever done throughout their childhood, including that time he licked a 9-volt battery following Diego’s very honest suggestion. Sometimes Ben would cry as he went on. Then it would be really hard for Klaus to refuse any of his requests. However, as Ben got older in death, he rarely cried. When Ben was silent, Klaus could feel death itself shroud him, but harmless like a baby.

Now he’s lost everything. No Ben’s crying, no Ben’s laughing, no Ben’s silence. No death, no life. Just a cowboy hat, from an era that was not meant to be. Now he could see so clearly the ghosts along the road—they were motionless, staring in melancholy every single passenger around them, only showing the slightest trace of surprise as Klaus waved at them, rolling their eye balls a little. How familiar—Klaus thought—in a world where no one knew him, what was the difference between him and the ghosts?

He stopped in front of the veteran club, not realising he had memorised the way here. Nonetheless he still pushed the door open, as if following an unknown force or calling. Many gazes and judging eyes fixated on him again. But he could not care less. He had to see it with his own eyes…He walked towards the photo pane, caressed the edge of each photo until he found…he inhaled, tears filling up his eyes…Dave. Dave was wearing that ridiculous helmet that was too big for his narrow forehead, standing distinctively among his fellow soldiers, leaning on a rifle. The only difference was that Klaus was not by his side in this one. He touched carefully the photo, having a sense of sleepwalking in his dreams.

“Hey, you.” Adding to his dejavu, he heard the old vet’s voice from behind. “This is place for vets only.”

Klaus turned around.

He remembered the face of this old man, remembered his voice, and the painful impact of his forehead hitting his own. Jesus, he thought. Felt like a lifetime away. But he did remember. He breathed deeply.

“I’m sorry.” He said, with open palm. “I meant no offence. I lost someone.”

The old man frowned. However, the hostility in his face faded a little,

“He was a vet, just like you.” Klaus said, surprised at the ease of the words coming out of his mouth. He should have done this a while ago. The first time he was here, he should have done this. Turned out, spitting the truth was far more liberating than resisting the feelings.

“He was a very important person to me…but he passed away. I’m here to grief him.”

The old man stepped away a little. His furrowed brows had loosened completely.

“Geez, son.” He said. “I get it. Was it your father? Or your uncle?”

Klaus did not reply. His brain went all blank as he saw another person emerge from behind the old man—a crooked shadow due to old age, gained some weight over the years, but still so close to what he remembered that every pore on his skin screamed. He covered his mouth in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ…” The familiar shadow of a man said, sounding almost identical to his youth years. “This is fucking impossible…”

Klaus froze on the spot. It took him awhile to realise he did not see a ghost, because firstly he had never thought of _him_ as an old man—it pained him too much, he could not take it. Secondly, he was wearing a really old-fashioned plaid shirt. Even if Klaus was to imagine his old years, he would not have imagined him in those hideous shirts. He’d rather see him in a kilt. Most importantly, he had a snooker pole in his hand, and another vet’s slender arm wrapped around his neck.

“Dave…?”

What would Ben have said in this situation?

Diego stuffed a second burrito into his mouth, still in confusion.

Roughly twenty minutes ago, he walked past a food truck. The smell of burrito from the truck tortured him like no medieval interrogation could rival. He dug into his pocket for an hour without finding a single coin, just a useless deposit card—it was his only bank card in _his_ 2019, which was carried to the 60s with him. While he was locked up in the nut house, the card together with his clothes and cash were taken away by the hospital staff. But he found a chance to steal them back. Maybe that was reckless and unnecessary. Still, part of him—the part that left home since the age of seventeen and lived a financially straitened life ever since—had always believed if something could help you wherever, whenever and whichever timeline you were in, that would be money.

Out of a desperation move, he plugged the bank card that should not have existed into an ATM—God he wanted that burrito so badly. It was the last thing he cared on the planet earth. What a bizarre thing people’s mind was. One minute he was venting about being erased from existence to his youngest but oldest brother. One minute later, all he could think about was a burrito.

Four digits of blank space appeared on screen. _Please entre your password._ Diego took a breath, then typed the password. He did not expect it to work but…Whoosh. The ATM machine made that magical sound and suddenly…Diego could not believe this. He glared around, eager to ascertain this was not a dream. There were real people passing in front of the ATM booth, not some tea pots or flower bouquet. He took the two-hundred-dollar cash out of the slot. The receipt showed five thousand dollars still available on the account.

That was far more than what he had deposited before. In fact, he had quite literally zero deposit before.

_What is going on here?_

Diego decided to eat first, think later. He needed to buy that burrito. Maybe three burritos.

Twenty minutes later, he sat on the kerb in front of the food truck, already half full, but still tried to chuck the second burrito into his very crowded mouth. His taste buds still craved the flavours of cheese, barbecue sauce, ketchup and peas. He grabbed a handful of French fries, dipped in Mayonnaise and put them in his mouth too. A police patrol car blared by, alarm echoing through the entire block like an attention-seeking teenager.

Diego stood up without much thinking. He realised the precinct he was so familiar with was just three blocks away. He stuck the remaining three burritos into his side and back pockets, then walked to the precinct almost instinctively. He had a feeling…a feeling triggered by the bank card that shouldn’t exist. He arrived in front of the police station after a short way of walking and running, the food in his mouth not yet fully digested. The patrol car had already been parked for a while, but only then did the driver come out.

“Hi, Jimmy.” A police officer walked out of the station, carrying a back purse, hailed the driver.

“Hi, Eudora.” The driver said. “Busy day?”

“Not as busy as yours.” The policewoman said.

Diego’s breath stopped. He stood in the middle of the pedestrian, a half-eaten burrito in one hand, like a homeless and an idiot.

The very alive Eudora stepped off the staircase and saw him. Her purse dropped slightly from her arm.

“…Diego?” She smiled, surprised but delightedly so. “Why are you here? Don’t tell me you _did it_ again.”

Diego couldn’t speak; his heart about to burst out of his mouth.

“…Eudora?” He murmured.

“Hey!” The police woman blushed, trotted up to him and dragged him slightly away with one arm.

“Didn’t I tell you not to call me that in front of my co-workers?” She whispered into his ears.

 _This is not real._ Thought Diego. No. It’s not possible. Fucking food truck. He thought menacingly. _What did they put in my food?_

“…You know me?” But he still asked, like an idiot.

Patch stood a step away, looking at him with amused but also curious eyes.

“…Is this some new game you thought up?” She laughed. “If so, it’s pretty intriguing so far. Same as your stupid wig and fake beard…”

She froze, as she dragged his shoulder-long hair until he cried out in pain. Those greasy curly hair showed no sign of coming off.

“…What the hell?” She finally backed down in shock.

Diego raised one hand to protect his hair. His eye started to water up—No. Not now. He thought. He couldn’t do this in front of her… _This version of_ her.

“Are you alright?” Patch stretched out one hand. She seemed to be genuinely worried, with a little—or a lot of—affection. “Diego, if you need me to do anything…”

He shook his head, entirely out of reflex.

“Diego?” Patch said.

_No. Don’t call me that._

Her body was cold. Dark shades bled out of her chest. His Eudora.

Not this one.

Not this living, strange-looking, familiar-looking, warm and loving…

Diego turned around. Before he could realise the foolishness of it, he was already dashing away from the station.

4.

A blue nylon bag smacked on the counter with a heavy thud, stinking like someone’s vomit. Grant straightened his neck from behind the counter, feeling the night breeze blowing through the open doors, then being shut out as the doors closed automatically. A dark-haired boy hung from the counter, tiptoeing, glancing around like a lost cat.

“You here for you mom?” Grant said in a cynical, menacing tone.

The boy raised his eyes and looked at him, seemingly undisturbed by his crude vulgar.

“I need a room. Single is fine. Preferably on the second floor, away from the streets.”

Grant glared at him, amused.

“Do you even have money for that?”

“You have eyes for that?”

The boy pointed at the nylon bag by raising his jaw.

Somewhat alerted, Grant unzipped the bag with his fingertips. He immediately zipped it back up as he saw the many bundles of hundred-dollar cash.

“…I don’t know how you get your hands on this, kid.” Grant stood up, trying to intimidate the boy by showing a clear difference in height and build. “But you better return it where it belongs. And we don’t allow minors here, without a parent’s company.”

“You don’t allow firearms here either.” The boy smiled, showing a dimple. “But you still received a whole package of them. No?”

Grant shook his head in confusion. Then he realised the boy was staring at a brand-new blue package beneath the counter. The recipients were supposed to be two customers checking in this afternoon. But they were not here yet. _Fuck._ Grant thought. He knew it was too heavy to not be suspicious.

“If you open it,” The boy said, interrupting him from tearing up the package. “You will be dead before tomorrow.”

Grant froze. He straightened up slowly, eyes fixed on the boy. Now he was in awe, and a little scared.

“If you don’t open it, that’s illegal possession or possibly trafficking firearms.” The boy continued. “One anonymous call and your business is over.”

“…What the hell do you want?”

“I just said I want a room, second-floor, away from streets.” The boy’s smile deepened. “I’ll pay double. It’s really not that hard of a choice, pal.”

Three minutes later, Five checked into his room. The room was not big, had one single bed, nice privacy, with a window opening to a closed parking lot, barely any noise from the streets. He put the briefcase down beside the bed, threw the nylon bag with remaining cash on the nightstand, then checked the bathroom, ventilation pipe and in-wall closet. Everything looked normal. He circled back and sat on the bed. The moment his feet lifted from the floor, a flood of exhaustion came over him, urging him to just lie down on the bed, giving in to the eagerness of his upper eyelids wanting to kiss the lower ones, and sink into the sweet sweet embrace of sleep. But he forced himself to sit up straight, pushing back against the overwhelming desire to doze off. In the next few hours, two commission agents would check in. They would be among the first team of field agents sent to this post-apocalypse timeline. Whoever their target was, it had to be a very influential person, because the world was supposed to end yesterday, according to the commission’s original plan. Anyone who became one of the first few targets in this not-meant-to-be timeline had to pose significant impact on changing it.

If Five wanted to know, and _change_ anything in this timeline, he’d start from here.

He chose this motel precisely for this reason. He knew very well the motels mostly used by the commission to host their field agents, and when he saw the over-sized, very modestly wrapped navy-blue package, he knew he had found the right place.

The corridor remained silent. Chilling wind of early April shrieked outside the window, like an unattended, passionately boiling kettle. Five focused his gaze on the small gap between curtains, concentrated on his thoughts to fight back exhaustion. He forced himself to think, keep his brain spinning, reciting each and every detail he saw since landing in this 2019 timeline. The Academy building was exactly the same as before, save for the sparrow badge, Ben’s portrait (If Ben never left, why the portrait?), and Ben being alive—He had a scar over his face. Were his powers still the same? Was his name still Ben? Did he still love literature, like before, and read Chekhov on the dinner table? The thought of this stung him. Five could not tell if it was purely psychological or partly physical. Afterall he was fighting for his life only hours ago. Sometimes he could still feel the pain, being torn through by multiple bullets— _What’s it called? Phantom pain? Some word like that_ —Turning back time and travelling through time were two entirely different processes. He didn’t even know he had this ability until then. For a moment he felt proud, triumphant even, until he saw Allison and her heart-broken expression. Until he saw the disappointments in every one’s eyes—disappointed at him. Until he saw the happiness of having survived, having retuned home faded away from their face, then came the confusion, the horror, and a loss that could not be undone.

Five thought nothing could hurt him more than seeing his siblings being gunned down one after the other, but he had underestimated how much the world must hate him.

Now, all had been lost. They were trapped in this world, in a sense worse than the apocalypse. Because there was nothing to lose in an apocalyptic world, so he could give up everything and just go back. But at this moment, the world still went on, fragile, like a newborn infant, a tip in any direction could topple it entirely. Five dared not to time travel again, fearing any ripple in the space-time continuum might summon the doomsday again. He could not seek for the help of his siblings either. Afterall, how could he ever ask for their trust again, after failing so miserably? Unless he could find a way and restore everything.

So that Allison could see her daughter again.

So that Diego could find his own place in the world, even carrying out his hero dream a bit longer, until the moment he’s ready to wake from it.

So that Klaus could grow up, for real this time, away from the influence of drugs and alcohol.

So that Luther could be truly independent find value for himself in a world outside the Academy.

So that Vanya could stand on the stage and play once again, but this time, with her whole family cheering for her.

God. There’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t do to make this happen.


	3. Istanbul not Constantinople (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five: What's worse than Vanya causing two Apocalypses? Two Vanya causing Apocalypse.

5.

Two figures wearing blue suits showed up between curtains for a moment, before disappearing into the other side of the corridor. Five jumped off the bed, excited by the sudden adrenaline rush, vigilant, with all the weariness gone in a matter of seconds. He ran to the window side, ducked down, listening closely to the pair of footsteps until they stopped. A beep sound from a card key, then a door opened and closed. Five quickly calculated the time and steps they took, estimating the distance from his room to theirs, then blinked over in a single faultless jump.

The two commission agents only just started unpacking, not even with theirs guns out yet.

Five appeared out of the blue into their room, startling both. Their first reaction was to put on the masks—Bert and Ernie—turned out. _Geez, they really shook things up there in the Commission._

Bert drew out a double-barrel shotgun from the package, aiming out of reflex at the unannounced intruder.

“What did Commission protocol say about this situation again?” He whispered uncertainly to his partner, “Kill all intruders with extreme prejudice?”

Ernie did not respond. He was still in shock, only managed to hide the briefcase behind him.

“Commission protocol article 41 category D. If infiltrated at base, take action according to the following circumstances. When infiltrator is the target, terminate on site. When infiltrator is not target, refer to article 53 category A to C.” Five strolled to the dusty TV stand, resting one arm casually on the antenna. “You really passed the first round of field agent exam?”

Bert and Ernie were idle. Five could not wait for their reaction, continued on his own: “You don’t know who I am?”

“…Shirley Temple’s stunt double?” Bert said unsurely. Ernie kicked him from behind.

Five scoffed.

“Irrelevant.” He walked up to the two young hitmen. “Listen, I need to know the name of your target. I have no intention meddling in your business. Kill him or her or them however you want, whenever you want, by fire, soil or water. I don’t care. Just give me the name and you won’t see me ever again. How’s that sound?”

Bert and Ernie looked at each other.

“Sound like we are gonna lose our job.” Bert replied.

“Oh you won’t.” Five rolled his eyes. “As long as you finish the target, no execs will give two shit about you letting lose the target’s name. Trust me, these higher-ups have more drinking parties to worry about than you.”

“He sounds like he knows our job very well.” Ernie whispered to Bert, though not as low so Five wouldn’t be able to hear him. “He sounds like Commission.”

“That’s impossible.” Bert shook his head. “We answer directly to Dot. No other execs will contact us, that’s the rule. Remember?”

He signed, then turned back, still aiming his gun at Five.

“Look, Shirley Temple. I don’t know who you are, but you’re shit out of luck. We have strict orders; the target’s name is highly confidential. If you don’t get out the way you got in, I don’t care what article 53 says, I will put two shotgun blasts into your chest. Your body will look miserable because you’re so small. You might break in half. And your parents are gonna be devastated. You wanna see them devastated?”

Five had no energy to answer that question. He vanished, only to re-appear the next second, less than an inch away from Bert, his fingers clutching the nozzle of the shotgun, dragging the gun man to the same level as him, the tip of his nose almost kissing Bert’s nose ball.

“Now you listen to me, you clumsy thumb-sucking toddlers.”

His wildly furious green eyes peeped into the two holes in Bert’s mask and pierced right through the young assassin’s eyes—two bulb-like fishy eyes that were violently quivering in fear and shock.

“I could’ve killed both of you the minute I got in, but I didn’t. Because I still have a little sympathy for the frontline workers. You have a lot to learn, your ignorance is forgivable. But I have had pretty shitty past few days. Had to kill a lot of people just to find out it was all for nothing. I barely ate, barely slept. I’m tired, and angry. So pardon me if I’m not my usual composed and forgiving self. If you pulled that trigger, I swear to God it will be switched with a condom and your head will explode. I’m going to stuff your partner’s head into that briefcase. His head will fly to some 1920 cruising ship, and his body will remain here. His body will miss his head very much, just like you’ll miss your last day on earth, regretting why you didn’t make a reasonable choice. But the moment you pull that trigger, it’s over. No second chances. I suggest you listen to the voice of reason.”

When he stopped talking, the room was dead silent. Bert’s trigger hand stagnated, his eye sights swam involuntarily back to his partner, mouth moving along the lines of “What the fuck is going on here”. Ernie’s jaw almost sank into his own thick neck. He was a big guy. He had no reason fearing a scrawny little kid that looked barely 14. At the same time, he did see the little kid disappeared and reappeared, twice now, right in front of him, seemingly out of thin air.

“I don’t have time here.” Five said, “If you don’t hand me the tube in the next five seconds, I’m killing you both. Five, four…”

Bert tossed the tube behind him, lowering his gun.

“…Thanks.” Five said in a genuine voice. Then he picked up the tube, took out the note, memorised the name then put everything back, sealed the tube.

“Best of luck hunting.” He left a last gesture, before disappearing from the room.

When Five reappeared in the corridor, he could hear the two agents mumbling in the room in a crazed tone.

“I remember him now! He’s Number Five!”

“What?”

“He’s the number one assassin in Commission history!”

“…You just said he was number five.”

“No, no…Five is his name. He’s the best assassin in space-time. Have you not read the historical records Herb sent us? He’s like a living legend.”

“…Fuck. I was about to open fire.”

“We should ask for his autograph. Think about all the money we could get selling it back at the Commission.”

“Just thank God your head didn’t fly to some 1920 cruising ship.”

Five scoffed, then shook his head in a flash of shame for eavesdropping on younger generation fanboying over him. He blinked again and ended up right in his room.

He sat on the bed, eagerly drawing out an old yellow page as a first place to look up the name.

_Alright, who is this poor Damien Wilkinson?_

He quickly got a number and dialled it with the phone in the room. A pre-programmed female voice picked up from the other side, speaking joyfully as the background music played a symphony: “Good evening, you have reached the Icarus Theatre. For ongoing performances please select 1…”

6.

The theatre drapes hung low—a frozen waterfall over an abyss.

Only two night-lights remained illuminating, to aid the cleaning persons. Rows after rows of seats were left empty, emitting a strong scent of mold, like a grandma’s sofa. Vanya realised this theatre was one of the oldest buildings in the city. After the last refurbishment in the 60s, these red flannel sofa seats with golden tassels became a mark for the aesthetics of the theatre, leading a trending for some time in design and artistic fields. After that, the stage and upper circles were re-modelled for safety reasons. However, no efforts were put into changing these withered old seats. All the times of steam cleaning had dulled the reddish colour, some tassels burnt by cigarettes. Vanya rubbed the hardened back of the seats, feeling like rubbing over the back of an old, balding cat, having a strange emotion of sympathy. These seats were from the same time period as she came from. She was trapped in time just as these seats were trapped in a theatre.

She turned around and saw Allison standing on the aisle, smiling, tears in her eyes. She took a full second to pluck herself from the memory.

God—she thought. How much time had passed since then? Sometimes, when she recalled that day, recalled the little girl staring at her violin case and smiled; recalled Allison, standing on the aisle, like it was yesterday. But other times, she recalled that soundproof cell; recalled the stern faces of her brothers rushing to the stage, ready to attack; recalled Pogo…No. She inhaled, covering her eyes. Not Pogo. _Why did she do it? Why did she do such thing to him?_ Vanya could not bring back a single trace of rage she felt that day. Now to think about it, it was as if she was drunk, in some sort of drug ecstasy, with no place for rationality. Only emotion. Oceans and mountain ranges of emotion. Deep caves and wells of emotion. They surrounded her like a hurricane, while she trembled and waved like a flag, unable to resist the violent seas, just flew away, carried by the storm.

It had always been part of her. Vanya knew. She had passed the stage of denial, only trying to stretch the distance from these memories, these emotions. However, no matter how far she ran, how collected she seemed to be, they were still after her, like a Halloween ghost refusing to leave.

That was her capacity of committing evil deeds.

The part of her that was most vile. Her source of power, her graveyard of humanity. The moment she was born, it had followed her.

Now she had to live with that part of herself, in a world she did not belong. Vanya felt her body dropped like a dead weight—her body that had two souls living in one, with a density off the chart. She breathed heavily, feeling the stagnated air in a closed stage suffocating her, and ran out of theatre like her life depended on it.

Sissy. She thought to herself. She had to go looking for her. Sissy could still be alive. Harlan could very much be alive. She had to find them…Didn’t Sissy said something about going to California? Vanya had no idea how to get to the other side of the continent with little money she had. She had no idea how to find two people in the whole population of California. But she couldn’t care less. She had no capacity to care.

Sissy and Harlan only knew one of her selves—Vanya thought—the better one. She felt ashamed by this cheap and cowardly desire of assurance, but she couldn’t help. She needed it now—the person who only knew the better version of herself, to comfort her, reassure her, letting her know that she was capable. She had so much strength left in her to be _good_. So she wouldn’t slide into the dark, bottomless pit of herself; the deadly silent soundproof cell, starting at her own ghost, the shadow of demons.

_Ding-dong._

Vanya jolted back to reality, realising she had walked for quite some distance away from the theatre. The surrounding architecture had changed from the gloomy, old-fashioned tall-rising buildings to a recently renewed, colourful market street. The one shop that just opened its door was a vintage store. The owner was just about to throw a black plastic bag into a garbage bin. He saw her dramatic halt, standing motionless in the street, and gave her a confused glance.

Vanya remembered this street.

Her heart so heavy it sank into her stomach, nonetheless, beating rapidly, and her hands were cold, albeit sweating. A single desire rose from her mind, so irresistible her chest hurt.

_No, no…this is not a good idea._

She whispered to herself. Not only was it not a good idea, but a bad one, the worst one at that.

However, her body seemed to know better, as she walked down the street of her memory, slow but firm, breath short but steady, following a direction that was almost muscle memory.

_No, Vanya, stop._ Her mind demanded. _What’s the meaning of all this? What do you expect to get out of this?_

Nothing. She thought. I’d have nothing. Wasn’t this the law of the Universe? _Eventually, you always lose everything._

That ghost of Halloween got closer by the second.

So was the darkness. She could smell its breath.

Maybe the best way of dealing with it was to turn around and face it.

Maybe, today was the day she got rid of it, got done with it, and got away with it. The horror. But if she were to do it, she had to face one thing, to confirm one thing…

She stopped in front a shop. The minute she looked up at the signboard, the courage she had nurtured up all this time crumbled right in front of her. A sense of disassociation engulfed her, as if she was running in a dream. No matter how hard you drove your legs and arms, they just kept being numb as if you stepped on a floor of cotton. You knew none of these were real, but you still tried your best to run, because your fear was real…

The front door of the shop opened, a familiar shadow of a man walked out, with a military-green bag over his shoulder, about to close the shop.

“…Can I help you?” He looked around for a second, just to ensure the person in front of him was actually staring at nobody else but him, then asked in confusion.

Leonard.

The name re-surfaced from the pit of her memory like a curse, burning out a blank space in her mind.

“…I’m sorry, who? Leonard?” The familiar stranger said, with a familiar, downward-curve smile. “Eh…we don’t have anyone here by that name.”

Did she actually spoke out loud? Jesus, she didn’t even realise her lips had moved. It was as if she was stuffed into a concrete column. The forward movement of “Leonard” made her back off shakily.

“Are you sure you are alright?” He asked in a soft voice, every vibrate of his vocal cord made her stomach twist. “You look pale…”

Vanya raised her head again, to read word by word the overhead sign of the store. Although the fonts and design were exactly the same as before, the owner’s name had changed. Now it read “Jenkin’s woodwork and artistic”.

No. She was wrong. She was not prepared.

Vanya turned away abruptly, just as the ghost was about to reveal itself from the white shrouding robe, stretching out her distance once again.

Harold Jenkins stood still, bewildered, watching as the strange woman ran off, as if being chased by a plague, laughed with curiosity and contempt.

“Who was that?” An unpleasant voice rang behind him.

Harold turned around, smiled, at the same time clutching tightly his tool bag, rubbing nervously.

“Why are you here?” He said, “Didn’t we agree to meet at dinner? I thought…”

“I thought I’d give you a pleasant surprise if I show up right after a mission. Instead I caught you talking to another lady.”

“April, it’s not what you think…”

“Ha! Got ya!” A tiny woman with short, mousy-grey hair—April—suddenly closed up, cracking up a smile. Harold noticed a trace of blood running off her right chin.

“Ummm…you got something…here.” He gestured.

“What?” The girl wiped with her hand, saw the bright red colour, and shrugged it off carelessly, licking the blood with her tongue. “I was in a hurry. Can’t let Daddy find out.”

“I can see that.” Harold smiled with a down-curve again. “Where are we gonna go for dinner with you dressing up like a schoolgirl?”

April lowered her gaze. She was slightly built, child-like even, and seemed to go very well with the Catholic women’s college style uniform that she wore. However, any restaurant with a bar would give some second thoughts in serving liquor to a girl dressed like that. She grabbed Harold’s arm, walking as she spoke: “We still have plenty of time, no? We can go to your place, get changed. It’s not like you don’t have some of my clothes lying around…”

Warmth from the girl’s body radiated through the fabric of her uniforms and made Harold swallow. It had been two months since they started a relationship. Yet still, everything seemed surreal to him, especially when he set eyes on the badge of the girl’s uniform—a badge divided into four quadrants, one of them with a sparrow on it, a symbol of her family.

He still couldn’t believe he made a member of the Sparrow Academy his bitch.

7.

By the time Five arrived at the Icarus Theatre, it was late at night. The last show of the day dissembled two hours ago. The curtain was closed at the ticket office, and the reception hall was dark without a single light. Five blinked into the hall, drawing out a flashlight he picked up from the motel front desk. As he stuck his hand into the pocket, he realised the fabric from inside of his pocket had two holes in it. Fortunately, the flashlight did not slide out. Shit. He thought. He should have changed out of these uniforms long ago, especially now…he thought ironically, that the last possible meaning this uniform had was gone. But he couldn’t help to resist the idea of dressing up like a teen—he didn’t even know how teens were supposed to dress. Sure, he never had a normal teenage time, but he saw plenty of similar-aged boys on the streets. However, it had never occurred to him that he should memorise how they dress. Not to mention he had been to too many time periods, and people dressed up differently each time. He had always been a believer of “clothes make a man”—provided you weren’t in an Apocalypse of course. The last thing he wanted was to dress up in some inappropriate, distasteful and cheaply fabricated pre-teen clothes, being the walking joke of the town, seeing no one would take him seriously as it was.

The sound-controlled lights in the corridor suddenly lit up, startling Five. No sight of another human being in the empty hallway laden with purple-red carpet. Five searched on the wall, looking for a direction map to point him to the theatre manager’s office.

One of the first targets of the Commission post-Apocalypse was an old manager guy in an old theatre, it seemed pointless. However, experiences taught him otherwise, as sometimes, a storm initiated by a butterfly could be best prevented by killing said butterfly. It was more doable, more efficient. He also understood better why the two freshmen idiots were sent on such important mission. A sixty-year-old, classical-music-loving old man, with literally zero means to fight back, could be killed even with an unbalanced chair.

When Five got into the office, Wilkinson was already dead.

The old man lied on the floor, face-down, with no visible injuries or signs of struggle, and an unbalanced chair by his side. From the pale lip and blue fingernails, it was obvious he died of a heart failure. The scene was staged to look like he fell off the chair as it toppled while he stood on it, trying to reach something high up, triggering a heart attack. However, no one would know exactly what triggered his heart attack.

Five wandered around his office, looking for clues. He tried not to contaminate the perfect murder scene (turned out the two toddlers were pretty good at their job after all), nor leaving any unidentified fingerprints. But when he saw a thrown-away poster in the paper bin, his body reacted before mind could process.

He snatched the poster out of the rest of the bundle that was opened mails and used tissues, his breath almost stopped.

No…this is impossible. He thought. Not her…out of all people, _not her._

The poster showed an orchestra playing, nothing special compared to any other orchestra in the world. The poster advertised in both English and Russian the orchestra’s name, the piece they’d play, and names of key members: the conductor, first chair violin…A photoshoot of an elder man, with white hair and stubborn jawline, waving a baton, presumably the conductor, occupied one corner. On the opposite corner was another photoshoot—Five folded the poster in shaking hands, put it into his blazer’s inside pocket. He then cleared out all the opened mails from the bin, browsed through their contents, sticking three of them into his pocket as well, and blinked out of the theatre with three jumps.

Chilling winds in the early morning blew over the empty roads and pedestrians, hurting his exposed knees. He shivered a little, not only because of the freezing cold but also in a fit of panic.

He had to find Vanya. He had to warn her.

If there was a bomb with the potential to destroy the whole world, the last thing you wanted is for her to meet another exact same bomb, with potential to destroy the whole world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect writing Harold was gonna give me such disgusts. Geez this guy is toxic.


	4. From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five promised he would not kill again. He broke that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implicit depiction of pedophilia and child abuse.

1.

The shining green cross of a pharmacy had never been more maleficent. When Vanya came to her senses, she had walked across the entire gas station, entered the convenient store, and strolled straight towards the small chemist counter.

She could feel his hand dancing on her skin. A sticky, calculating, sickly gentle touch.

A touch that made her resent every inch of her own skin.

Vanya braced herself, clutching tightly her sleeves, nails digging into both arms, but felt no pain.

She longed to take off her own skin.

Maybe Dad was right all along. She thought, surprisingly. God, how she missed the almighty mist engulfing her entire childhood—inside the mist, there were no happiness, nor pain. She could not feel anyone’s emotion, nor her own. It felt as if she was floating on a snowy lake covered by white fog, heading to the isle of mist, Avalon, where apple trees bloomed forever. When you encountered something unpleasant, take a pill. When you wanted to forget, take a pill. When you were confused, not knowing how you should feel, take a pill. Pills wouldn’t hurt you. At least it wouldn’t hurt you like people would. Vanya couldn’t be sure if she kept on taking pills even after leaving the Academy simply because Dad told her to, or because she wanted to. However, as of right now, she did walk into the small pharmacy out of her own free will. She longed for the mist. If anything could save her from this cold, agonising terror, hissing like a venomous snake, ready to eat her whole, she’d swallow anything, even fire.

The store was empty, not a single clerk in sight, at least for now. She trembled to her teeth, sleepwalking towards the chemist counter, browsing catalogues with wide feverish eyes as the unfamiliar names of every medicine dropped to the back of her head like rains dropping on the outside of a window. Then she saw it—Benzodiazepines. Her breakfast, lunch and dinner. Her midnight snack and dessert. She turned around, looking for a shopkeeper but found no one. She tiptoed, trying to take the medicine off the shelf, but her height wasn’t enough. Her fingertip only touched the package for a second before toppling half of the row. She kneeled down, preparing to pick them up before they hit the floor—

And the bottle of Benzodiazepines flew straight into her palm.

The rest of the medicine she knocked off circled around mid-air, like a remotely controlled toy plane, and flew right into position, exactly the way they were. A casual, pleasant, friendly voice came from behind.

“You do know you need a prescription for that, right?”

Vanya turned around. She recognised the voice before seeing the person who spoke, and recognised the trick before hearing the person who played it—What a coincident. She thought. What happened to throwing oneself into a looney house?

But when she did see the person, she was still shocked.

Diego was dressed in a light-coloured shirt, uniform of sorts. His shoulder-long curly black hair was as short as the day of their father’s funeral, and his beard was shaved clean.

“…I can see you have given up on your long-haired Antonio Banderas style.” Vanya joked, as casual as she could put on. She didn’t want Diego to see through her anxiety. Although, Diego’s presence had eased the anxiety, even just for a little.

“…For real?” The person opposite smiled, flattered. “Did you just call me Antonio Banderas, lady? You sure know how to flirt.”

Oh no. Vanya thought. Now she’s anxious, a lot more than before.

“What the hell, Diego?” She glanced at him, head to toe, wondering if he should seriously consider going to a psychiatric facility. “I didn’t…It was Klaus, remember? He told me…” Then she saw the name tag on his chest. She couldn’t believe it. “Are you working here? You got a job already?”

“Lady, I don’t know what you mean.” Diego—at least that’s what his name tag said—stepped back several inches, a little alerted. Though he still maintained his cool and a smile. “If this is your way of a pickup line, I gotta say, it’s real creative. Just a bit too creative for my taste…You are pretty, don’t get me wrong…”

The hell was he talking about? Vanya thought. Did he hit his head?

“But I have to be honest, I’m taken, in a sense…”

Suddenly, Vanya understood. Her body stiffened, an electrifying terror, much different from the previous one, grabbed her.

“You are not Diego.” She said to herself.

“Uh…I’m sorry, miss.” “Diego” looked down at his name tag, then raised his head, smiling at her. “I think I know my name better than anyone else.”

“You are not Diego Hargreeves.” Vanya continued.

“…Hargreeves?” Diego shook his head, confused. “Is that your family name? If that’s the case, I’m sorry, this is too fast for me…”

Jesus Christ. Vanya thought. _This cannot be real._

But it was.

She stared intensely at this “Diego”. He looked almost exactly the same as the Diego she knew, minus the scar on his cheek—This Diego had olive skin, healthy, smooth, not even a pimple hole. He had the same height, same build as the Diego she knew, albeit the latter gained some weight after his time in a 60s asylum. The biggest difference, this Diego--with his light blue shop uniform, dumbass name tag, sprayed short hair, clean shaven chin—was glowing, happy, outgoing and a sunshine. His dark eyes bore no shadow. His jokes—a bit too cliché, even cheesy—were all genuine, confident and unironic. He was so optimistic, cheerful, childlike, and he was proud of it.

How obvious, thought Vanya, even surprised she did not figure it out at the first instance, this was not the Diego she knew. This was not her brother. Not the bitter, angry, fragile yet stubborn one. _The ruined one_.

“Hey lady! You haven’t paid yet!” The alternative Diego shouted as she ran to the door. “And your prescription--”

Vanya finally turned around. She looked at the bottle, bit her lips, then put it back on the counter.

“I don’t need to it anymore.” She said with a low voice, then ran past “Diego” and stepped outside.

She had to warn him.

Vanya thought.

She had got to warn Diego.

And the others…Allison, Luther, Klaus, and Five…And…

Vanya kept running, suppressing the terror in her chest. It was an entirely different kind of terror from before. Though it still shook her, making her tremble, but also filled her with strength, a sense of obligation—to protect her family.

If there was an alternative Diego in this world, then there must be an alternative Luther, alternative Allison, alternative Klaus, alternative Five, and…

Vanya dared not to think.

One step at a time. She forced herself to remain calm. Start with Diego.

At least she had some clue with him. She knew where to find him.

2.

This place hadn’t changed a bit.

Diego stood in front of the boxing ground, inhaled deeply, then regrated almost immediately. He coughed up the stuffed, sweat-ridden stinking air.

…Even the stench.

He walked along the exposed concrete walls bounding the corridor and pushed open the familiar metal gate. Behind the gate were sounds of flesh being punched, men groaned while trying to supress the pain and pretended to be bullet-proof, booing, sighing, sassing, and some dry over-confident jokes. The minute Diego walked in, he saw a slender janitor that looked Irish, and then Al. Al stood near the boxing ring, mocking the fighter leaning on the edge of the ring, the latter bleeding from his nose and mouth. He heard the gate open and looked over. Then he took a second look. Then he walked to the gate.

“…What do you want?” He asked unsurely, unlike the Al Diego used to know. Al had always been more alerted, and arrogant towards strangers. He still recalled the first time he saw Al—How many years had it been?—Al even despised him, because he didn’t look strong. He looked even scrawny back then. Al could not have imagined the excruciating training he had been through, and the gift he was born with.

“…You don’t know me?” Diego asked, carefully.

Al’s brows furrowed. “Should I? Who the fuck do you think you are, Maradona?”

Diego twitched his lips. Alright then. Al didn’t know him—any one of him—but maybe…

“Hey, do you need a cleaner?” He said, word by word, memorising what he said to him ten years ago. “I could mop your floor, for free, in exchange for the boiler room back there. I know you have a boiler room. I can fight for you as well. You may not see it but I’m hell of a good fighter.”

Al stared at him. _This is weird_ —thought Diego—the first time he met Al, he didn’t stare like that…

“Mamamia.” Said Al, “The brat was right. You really came.”

Diego blinked in confusion.

“…What? What brat?” He asked.

The gate behind him cracked open again.

Vanya busted through the door, confused and stressed, not knowing what kind of environment she got herself into. But the moment she saw Diego, as if he was her last straw of sanity, she rushed to him, grabbing his arm.

“Thank God…” She said, almost crying. “You are still here…You still exist…”

“Vanya?” Diego felt uneasy, though he did not shake her off as his body told him to. “How did you…Why are you here?”

“I need to talk to you…I need to…” Vanya said with hasty breaths. She must have run all the way here—Diego realised. And he knew his seventh sibling was never the athletic type.

“Hey, hey…just, breath, Vanya.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to calm her down. “Chill out, OK? You found me. There nothing to worry about, alright? Don’t panic, just tell me what’s going on.”

Vanya looked up, seeing Al covering his mouth with his hand, as if being astonished by the situation unfolding, but not really surprised.

“Jesus…” Al sighed, more like talking to himself. “So the kid was a prophet?”

“What kid?” Diego turned around, though he already guessed the answer. “Tell me, Al. How did you know about me?”

“A kid came.” Al shook his head, still reluctant to accept the reality as it was. “Maybe five minutes, ten minutes ago?”

Diego looked at Vanya, and she looked back. They both had the “you are thinking what I’m thinking” type of expression.

“About…this tall?” Al gestured. “Real thin. Something like 13, 14 years old? Not older than fifteen I’d wager. Dark hair, green eyes. Wearing some sort of catholic college-boy uniform.”

Diego rolled his eyes. Vanya took a deep breath.

“Gave me 500 bucks.” Al continued. “Said if I saw a Latin male, black curly long hair, full beard, five foot one, looking like a dumbass and asking for a job, I’d tell him.”

“…Five.” Diego made a face like he’d spit, but spat out nothing, and muttered the name as if it was a curse.

3.

“If you see a Latin male, black curly long hair, full beard, five foot one, looking like a dumbass and asking for a job, remember to let me know.” The boy delivered a tissue paper with a number on it, relaxed and confident, as if not knowing what he looked like from an outsider’s point of view.

Al examined him cautiously, on one hand trying not to laugh, but on the other hand, the prideful, condescending expression on the boy’s face really triggered a violent instinct in him to punch the kid in the face.

“…First of all, let me pretend this is not crazy at all. Second of all, why would I do that?” Al, ultimately repressed the urge of punching, burst out in laugh. “What’s in it for me?”

“A five-hundred-dollar bill?” The boy said.

Al’s eyes widened. He took the tissue, opened it, then quickly wrapped it in his palm and put into his pocket.

“…Where did you get that money?” Al glared at him again, this time with a completely different expression.

“Why do you care.” The boy said. “Money is money after all.”

Then he turned away and left.

Al was so fixated on the boy’s figure vanishing into the other side of the gate, he did not see that one boxer with nasty eyes stood up and left through the other exit, following closely the boy’s footstep.

The minute Five reached the alleyway outside the boxing venue, he knew someone was following him. But he decided to give him a chance—A chance to stay alive.

The person did not take the chance.

Before walking out of the alleyway, Five turned around. The man behind spoke at the same time.

“Hey, kid.” A boxer, with a huge build and an exceedingly small head, called out. Both his hands were still wrapped with cloth. “Didn’t your Dad tell you not to carry too much cash around?”

Five took a peep at him, then examined his surroundings, his shoulders raised a little.

“My Dad…” He smiled. “Did not care much about fortune.”

“Ain’t that right.” The boxer strolled over, casually and flexing. He had a pair of disproportionally strong calves, and wide step.

“So your Dad wouldn’t mind sharing a bit more, would he?”

What a fucking idiot. Five thought. He couldn’t even bear to look at that greedy little ugly face of his. The stench of sweats made him sick.

He should just tear open the space in front of him and jump away. It would be the smart and fastest way. Any effort spent on this moron would have been a total waste of energy. He clenched his fists, concentrating, fast-computing. He was going to disappear at any second now, and reappear in a place with much fresher air…

“Hey!”

A heavy, stinky hand covered with lime powder grabbed his shoulder at the last moment, forcing him to turn around.

Five felt a sharp, millisecond-scale concentrated, focused, rash anger in his head.

“Don’t be rude, kid. Look me in the eyes when you talk to me.” The boxer released him, as sudden as his grab, lingering momentum sent him into a wall. The boxer stretched out a leg, sticking it in between Five’s legs.

Five looked up in surprise at the uninvited leg, then at the person it belonged to.

However, the boxer did not notice his gaze—if he had, maybe the rest would not happen—but he did not. He was busy eyeing the boy’s neck, his almost invisible Adam’s apple, all the way to his carefully adjusted tie, his chest under the soft vest, and his bone-thin knee caps. The man couldn’t help but let out a smirk, leaking his lip.

“Or maybe you could share something else. Pretty little boy like you--”

He never finished the sentence.

Five raised his leg and aggressively kicked him in the crotch, the pain so fierce he could not even scream but to buckle down. Five took the chance when the height difference had been neutralised and grabbed his ugly stinky tiny head (although every fibre of his had been disgusted by it), and smashed his knees against the man’s face. Once, twice, thrice, four times, five times. Each and every strike were precisely timed, calculated and bestowed with the exact same amount of strength. When he finally let go, he could feel the blood trimming down his knee.

The boxer slid off along his body and fell onto the ground. Five raised his leg again. The man covered his face with two hands, crying out: “Please don’t…please…I beg you.”

Five tilted his head, staring at the man indifferently, feeling an almost out-of-body experience—must be the adrenaline. He thought. The adrenaline triggered by a sudden, extreme thrust of anger. He had it often when he was working for the Commission. The body squirming in front of him became something far away, alien, lifeless, just mechanical. Human beings were no longer beings. And he surely was not one of them.

“Sorry, I’m sorry…I’ll give you all I have…here, you want money, huh? There you go…It’s all yours…”

A wallet, key chains, some grocery receipts, and a couple of VIP cards that worth less than a fart.

The boxer got up from the ground, then ran wobbly towards the back door like his life depended on it.

Five’s eyes were with him the entire time, although his body remained idle. If the boxer had looked back even once, maybe the rest would never happen. Because he would have seen Five’s eyes—cold, vengeful, but not towards any specific beings, just an equal apathetic look for all; a merciless glance—He would’ve been scared to death, then he would turn the other way and run, instead of committing the second stupidest act of the day: going back to the boxing ring, calling a number of his mates, and embarking on a journey to regain his dignity and money.

This second stupidest act of the day would cost him his life.

Five picked up the wallet from the floor, still in a serene state of shock, struggling to believe what had happened to him. Of course—he thought, he knew this type of people existed. And he knew, look-wise, he was the perfect target of them. He just had never put two and two together.

He felt disgusted merely touching that sick fuck’s belongings. However, Five rejected this feeling. He rejected the emotion, disgust, sickness, or unpleasantness aroused from it. He rejected. He had been living in a burning hell for several decades—Five thought. What had happened was nothing compared to that. Just a fucking moron stepped on a pool of shit. He couldn’t care less. Not to mention that the other party was severely injured, got more than he could chew. Five refused to be the prey. He refused to be a victim to a bacterium, a microbe.

Five took a deep breath, then opened the wallet with steadied, un-trembling hands.

First of all—he forced himself to think—the number one priority was to find his sister and get answers. It was unclear how long he had to stay in this new timeline, so a bit more of money could never hurt. He took some water bills out of the wallet, put them inside his pocket, then shook the purse. A number of coins fell out. He took another scoop. Some used tram tickets. Worth less than a fart. Turn it over. Pocket on the back. Open the zip. He found one photograph.

Five did not even want to look at the photo. He was just following his instinct, turning it over as he found it, like what anybody would do.

In the photograph stood the boxer and a little girl. The girl was around ten-year old, wearing an overly large top, hands folding into a victory sign, albeit reluctantly. Her other arm tensed around her side, eyes red, chins stiff, twisting into a forced smile. The man was smiling too, but his smile was much more joyful, heroic even. He put his hand behind the girl’s neck, choking her gently.

Even with the dimming light in the photograph, one could see clearly the bruise around the girl’s wrist, neck and collar bone.

It took approximately three jumps to locate the boxer—Him and two of his buddies, with baseball bat, pole and stick, as they walked into the alleyway where the conflict first began. Obviously, they were planning for an ambush. Five did not put too much thought into it. He’s got a clear purpose. His first jump put him behind everyone else (he could hear the boxer complaining to his friends: “Out of all the kids he’s the first one…”). The second jump positioned him directly in the middle of the three people. No one even had a chance to react, although that was a mere space jump, no time manipulation involved. But they were still too slow for him. One of the buddies opened his mouth wide, sticking out his finger, about to say something, the moment when Five disappeared. They looked at each other, confused as to what happened. Was it a magical trick? Or was it an illusion? Until the boxer dropped onto the ground.

He dropped, without a sound, blood gushing out of his throat, also silently.

His buddies finally realised their clothes were soaked in red.

Five did not need to stand near to hear their screams.


	5. From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The number one assassin of the space-time continuum vs. an army of police officers. Who would win? Bets are open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if it's not obvious from the chapter title: the soundtrack recommended for Five fighting off the police army is Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes.

4.

Eddie thought this was going to be an easy mission, like “home in time for dinner” type of easy.

Previously, he got a tip: someone saw a boy in a private boxing ground, matching the descriptions he gave earlier. Therefore, he passed the archiving job he was doing to a newbie and drove to said boxing ground. But in fact, his plan was to go home early—he went out on a mission with no one knowing how long it’d take him—it was 4pm anyway. It would take him a few minutes to interview the witnesses, make a record then leave, in time to pick his daughter up from school and take her to McDonald or something. Her mother—Eddie’s ex—wouldn’t even know. Of course, only if both him and his little girl kept it as a secret.

Talking about the boy of interest, it had been a misfit from the start. A habitual thief, gambler, drug addict and homeless guy came to the precinct one day to report a case. That was not four people but just one person. His name was Scott. A nice couple found him, passed out in front of a garbage bin, bleeding from the front and back of his head, nose broken. They called an ambulance to deliver him to the ER. Now, poor Scott owed a four-figure bill to the ER, with no medical insurance whatsoever, and no immediate kin, he had to seek the help of police, hoping he could get some compensation from suing the big bad man for assaulting him. But here came the interesting part, when asked about who assaulted him, Scott insisted it was a little boy.

“He was not tall, probably…about here? To me chest? Looked 13 or 14, maybe even younger, thin as a stick…And he could fly too! Oh no, not fly…teleport! Yes, teleport! And he was good at math…He said he could win every Blackjack and he did.” If not for the drug test result they just received, Eddie would have thought he was still high. “Please, can you find him? He looked rich and took a lot of money from me. And I can’t even afford a broken nose? Like how is that fair?”

Normally, this type of drunk and assault among the bottom level of social hierarchy was so common that no one really paid much attention to it. It was a bit like “scratch and win”. If you wanted to try your luck, scratch, maybe you’d win a prize. But if you couldn’t win that’s fine too. Most of the time, you wouldn’t even bother scratching at all.

However, what happened next was even more bizarre. The day after Scott reported his case, a _Mr._ _big_ came to the precinct. The man represented the head executive of a big Casino near where Scott was attacked. He was a counsellor for the Casino boss. This lawyer, to Eddie’s surprise, confirmed some level of truth among the insanity that was Scott’s testimony; more specifically, the part about winning every Blackjack. The lawyer hoped to launch an investigation against this boy for illegal gambling and fraud. After large corps were brought into this, it changed the whole game. Even the usage of civilian tip—a concept that strict-to-book Chief had always despised—was permitted, and Eddie oversaw it.

Now he was on his way to the boxing gym, collecting tips on this urban legend boy, his mind had already skipped to the part of meeting his daughter. He could imagine how pleasantly surprised she would be—every time she saw him. It even hurt him a little, thinking about how strict her mother must have been on her. She was not allowed any snacks, any fried food, _for God sake she’ just a kid. She’s got fast metabolism. A bit of fat would only make her look healthier. What would a body of a model do her any good anyway? Just for some stupid junior schoolboys to—_

Eddie’s thought was cut short by the voice of dispatch, coming from a communicator. He grabbed it, holding it close to his ear, and was shocked by how close the matter was: assault and battering at the back alley behind a boxing gym, man down, possibly death.

Fuck. He thought. It was supposed to be an easy mission. Like “home in time for dinner” type of easy.

He should never have touched this “scratch and win”.

From a distance, Five could hear the police car’s wailing siren, and his first reaction was— _that’s not possible. They can’t be onto him this quick…Right_? Though no way he could know if the accumulating, buzzing police cars were actually after him, he wasn’t planning to stay here and find out.

He had already thrown the bloodied key chain into a public bin—the key chain that belonged to the boxer himself. A small decorative blade hung from the chain, maybe for self-protection (how ironic). There was not a single drop of blood on him, not even his fingertips, because he was fast, and a professional. The motel he lived was not far away. He should have been able to walk for a bit, then blink two to three times right into the room. However, the situation forced him to change his route. He blinked into taxi driving nearby, startling the driver. “Don’t mind me. Keep going.” he said. Most of the time, it worked. These drivers would accept the reality as it was, not too panic, nor too feisty, just keep quiet and drive for a few minutes before he blinked out again.

But not today.,

Not this driver.

A few days later, when Five looked back at his experiences on this day, he still had the urge to curse. In his miserably shitty life, he had been through some really fucked up situations, but this day—the level of shittiness was unparallel, since every time he threw himself into the hand of a stochastic distribution of luck, ten out of ten, the probability skewed to the worst extreme.

This driver, in his late forties or early fifties, bald in the front, sparse white hair at the back, with a very soft, elastic tummy, a photo of his wife and three children hanging from rear-view mirror—completely lost his shit.

He screamed as he abused the gas pedal, despite Five’s “Calm down” “I won’t do anything”, accelerating in a state of panic, turning left and right, U-turning when he was not supposed to, till he came to a sudden halt, right behind a police vehicle.

_Fuck._

Five cursed silently, then disappeared from the backseat.

When he rematerialized, about two blocks away from that lunatic driver, he found himself in front of another police vehicle, and a policeman, with half of his body inside the car window, listening to a communicator. He must have seen Five from the side mirror, at least Five thought so. Otherwise, he would not turn around immediately, gun in hand, pointing at Five with a face scared like Bambi.

“Lower your weapon!” The cop yelled. “Lower your weapon, hands behind your head and get down on your knees!”

Five shook his head.

Seriously? He already started to regret this. _That piece of human garbage is not worth the trouble._

He clenched his fist and prepared to jump away, right as a series of seizure shot through him. He didn’t even feel pain at first, only confusion as he was spat out of the space continuum. Then he was spat out twice, a third time…The portal of space rippled in front of him like a water tank pumped full of gas. Ice-blue energy waves propagated out of his body, then trembled, shattered, and flowed back into him, without dissipation. He felt ridiculed, stressed, confused and terrified, on top of some unbearable physical pain. That was the moment he realised he was been electrocuted—a seizure cause by electrocution. He bent over to look at his back and saw two darts fired into his shoulder blade. On the other side of the wired cable was a taser gun, and the police officer holding it.

Five’s legs went numb as he passed out on the ground.

The officer with a taser gun lowered his arms, could hardly believe what he had done.

The other police officer reacted much faster. He put his gun away, rushed forward and took the boy by his wrists, trying to nail him to the ground.

But he failed to touch anything.

The taser gun officer found the cables popped back in. Almost at the same time he heard footsteps behind his back. He tensed, swiftly turning and pulling the trigger again.

Nothing happened. He pulled for another two times only to find out he was not holding the gun anymore. In his hand was a plain walkie talkie.

Two darts buried themselves into his collar. He twitched, groaned as he dropped down on the floor.

The other policeman opened fire.

Instead of a taser gun, he was holding an actual firearm. A Glock 19 with 9mm bullets.

He missed entirely his target.

The boy ducked down, his head bent over as the bullet missed by a thread of thin hair, then slid towards the policeman under moment of inertia. He took out a club drawn from the other officer’s back and hit the man hard on his knees. The policeman yelped; his one leg buckled down. The boy did not hesitate. The second strike hit right on his temple and the policeman fell silent and motionless.

Five spat a few times. It did not help with the nausea.

He lifted himself up, using his knees as support—his knee caps were covered with dust, bruised from sliding, fresh blood dewing on the cuts. His head was pounding, ears ringing. He could hear his own heartbeats, not the regular, accelerated beats he would expect, but an out of pace, arrhythmic, chaotic beating, a result of electrocution. He leaned on one side of the wall, moved slowly along it. The alley had a dead-end. The police vehicle was parked in front of the end, so he had to walk the other way, his views still shaking as he moved.

The feeling reminded him of the first time he successfully performed a spatial jump—how old was he? Ten? Eleven? Ironically, he was the late bloomer among his siblings. All the others—Allison, Luther, apparently Vanya as well—had learned to use their power freely when they were three to four years old. And Klaus, ever since he was a baby, kept crying for hours on end, because ghosts wouldn’t even leave a baby alone. Not to mention Ben, whose childhood was a disaster. Before he turned five-years old, he was not allowed to rest or train with his siblings because the monsters in his stomach just wouldn’t sit still, and would take any opportunity to come out, as soon as their host relaxed. Diego’s power was a bit more complicated, but he was able to control with deadly precision any dart since he turned six. Except for Five—naturally, he knew he was able to manipulate time and space. He used to activate his power unconsciously at the age of two or three, trying to steal a bunny rabbit from of Luther’s hand and exchange it with a toy spider. (Luther cried for so long after that. He hated spiders). He had also—according to Pogo—briefly manipulated time, just to switch a piece of bread into a smaller one from the plate, as he was pretty picky with food from a young age, and only ate a small quantity at a terribly slow pace. Nevertheless, all those stunts were by accident. When he tried intentionally to use his power to his advantage, however hard he concentrated, so hard that he cried in shame in front of his father, he still couldn’t make a simple move from point A to point B: a spatial jump with millimetre level of accuracy, until he was roughly ten years old.

According to Dad, it was because his ability required a certain level of sophistication. He had to be familiar with basic math—the level which most people learned in college, at the same time be bold enough, confident, courageous, and physically fit to perform an entire series of calculation, within the least amount of time, a millisecond, and ensured an error under six digits behind the decimal point. Any error larger than that could result in a disastrous outcome.

However, Five still remembered the aftermath of his first successful jump—extreme dizziness, nausea, headache, and a feeling of hollowness like all life had been sucked out of him. He threw up right after on the training room floor, then kept vomiting for another day, until there was nothing left to throw up but bile fluid. Two days later, Dad demanded him to resume training, despite Mom and Pogo’s objection. Mom had presented a list of medical analysis, and Pogo simply begged, but Dad insisted on his decision, and frankly, Five agreed with him. After the first successful space jump, all he ever cared was one thing—he wanted to succeed a second time, a third, a forth time…He couldn’t care less about how his body would react. He knew this reaction would eventually fade, or he would get used to it. After all, he knew he would take full control over his power, because it was his _birth right_. It was his destiny. He was born to do it.

Luther’s stiff hand, still holding lifelessly onto a chunk of glass; Diego’s bleeding forehead; Allison’s pale, closed lips could never utter the next rumour; Klaus’ still-open eyes, and vividly squeezed brows, as if he could still feel pain, but his idled pulse and cold, hardened wrists said otherwise. Countless nukes rained down from the sky, a rising mushroom cloud like the umbrella tattoo carved into their arms; a storm of bullets, freezing, blood-ridden air, a black hole of gun muzzle stared straight at him.

_He was born to do it._

Allison’s heart broken gaze. “If I knew you’d fuck it up I should have just stayed in the 60s. I should never have come back with you.” Diego’s sarcastic yet disappointed remarks at the end of the day. “Somebody’s brilliant idea of finding Dad really worked out. Now look at us. We don’t have a Dad anymore. We’re basically homeless.” Klaus’ distancing shadow: he was so alone, he had lost Ben, and for what exactly? For a world that they didn’t exist anymore. Vanya gave him a last stare as she left. She had just gotten her family back, only to lose them again in a second. And it was all his fault. He should have found the exact solution, the answer to all questions.

His power—the ability to manipulate space and time, was not invasive at all, literally could not harm an ant. Unlike Luther, Diego, Ben, or Vanya. Unlike Allison, who could control someone to attack. Unlike Klaus, who could materialise ghosts to attack. It had to have meant something, right? He should not have had this power unless it was for a reason.

He was born to do it.

And he was not going to let anyone, anything, not even himself, stand in the way.

Five’s vision cleared slowly and gradually. He found himself out on the street again, walking along a pedestrian some twenty meters from that alleyway. He still couldn’t teleport; his head was spinning too fast. He couldn’t concentrate on calculation, and his heartbeats were way too irregular. Though he felt better every second from now on, not wanting to throw up that much, his chest no longer thumping like a time bomb. After resting on a public bin for a while, he got up again, sensing more strength in his legs, as he realised, he had walked into a crossroad, right in the middle of an intersection between four main roads.

Approximately six police vehicles, slightly less than twenty police officers had blocked all four road entries, and he was in the circle of it.

Great. Five thought ironically. Just the place he wanted to end up in. The focal points of all guns.

“Put down the baton!” A voice howled from a speaker. “Put down the baton and show your hands--”

Five felt a pitch of annoyance; the kind of annoyance one would feel around a huge green bottle fly buzzing but not biting. He was tired, alone, hurting all over, loaded with guilt, fear of the unknowns and futile rage. On top of that, the flies still managed to find a way to agitate him.

_Why won’t they just leave him alone?_

A child molester and rapist could not possibly worth their time or life, or family, could it?

“Listen.” Five raised his hands and voice, shouting to the closest policeman, who stood about ten metres from him. “This is a misunderstanding. I was only defending myself.”

“Put down your weapon!” The speaker buzzed. “Kneel, hands over your head--”

Five opened his palm and the baton hit the floor with a loud bang. He slowly put his hands together behind his head and lowered on his knees.

He could see most people put their guns down a little, showing reluctancy in shooting an unarmed kid.

At the same time, he waited patiently for energy to build back up in his body, even if it was not much, but enough for one or two more jumps.

He blinked the moment his knee was about to touch the ground.

Because in the name of God, he’d kneel to no one.

Eddie couldn’t figure out what just happened.

A few minutes ago, he was still on his way to see his daughter, whistling while driving, thinking about his little girl who he hadn’t seen for a week. A few minutes later, he and ten of his colleagues stood together, in circle, guns aiming at a kid—a kid that looked about the same age as his own.

Although situation seemed to be much more complicated and dangerous than it appeared, because they all saw with their own eyes the kid vanished, like the flame from a lighter. He also heard from the communicator that the boy just assaulted two police officers.

Even with all the background information, the idea of shooting a kid made Eddie’s stomach sink ( _or maybe it’s just nervous_ ). He had hoped the boy would be intimidated by real guns pointing at him and gave up, but somehow, he had a sensation that it wouldn’t be the case.

He was right.

The boy vanished before kneeling down. Eddie’s first reaction was to look up, as if the boy could fly. Then he heard his colleagues scream, ten o’clock direction, followed by a series of gunshots stressing everyone out. They all aimed at the source of the fire but saw no target, only three policemen on the ground, one’s feet still twitching due to electrocution.

Then the sound of car engine starting up. The officer closest to the vehicle swore in disbelief, looking back at his own car. Nobody caught how the boy got into the car. He gave a salute gesture before driving off, forcing the two officers to jump away and shoot. The police car drove head on into the opposite vehicle on the other side of the crossroad, shattering all windows. A policeman was knocked out by the suddenly slammed open door, another one busy covering his face to avoid being hurt by flying glass shards.

The boy, using two police cars as cover, ran straight to the next group of policemen under continued shooting. Eddie noticed he still got the baton. He grabbed one man as shield, threatening the close two shooters to stop firing, then immediately shoved the hostage towards one person, while running to the other. He used the baton to knock the gun off the man’s hand, scooped it into his own and aimed at the previous owner, at the same time shot two taser darts into the other two—he didn’t even look in that direction where he fired the taser gun.

The policeman held at gun point did not suffer long. The boy kicked up the baton from the ground, seized it and knocked the man down.

Eddie couldn’t figure out what just happened.

Same as his colleagues, he only aimed at the direction of possible threat out of pure instinct, but no one had seen the actual target before dropped down like flies. This was the longest 30 seconds of Eddie’s life. The officer next to him, finally came to the realisation that situation had gotten out of control, picked up a walkie and shouted for backup, before being knocked down instead of finishing his sentence. Eddie raised his gun in desperation but felt something cold and hard already poking his back.

“Drop the gun or I’ll drop it for you.” A clean, sharp, slightly scratchy and fragile voice came from behind, the voice of a pubescent boy.

Eddie’s mind once again swam to his daughter’s face. He threw the gun onto the ground.

He was the last man standing on this crossroad.

This might have been a bit out of the line.

Five thought, still bathed in an overwhelming euphoria as a combined result of adrenaline rush, victory dopamine and over-exertion. Did he need to disband an entire police army? Probably not. Did he regret it? He only regretted one thing in life, and this was not it. Did he kill anyone? Not sure. He never fired a single shot during the process, although he had many opportunities, and it would end this whole mess a lot faster, but he didn’t. He also did not lure them to shoot each other, although the opportunities were even more abundant. Why the effort? Not sure. Maybe he knew they were only doing their job, maybe he still had a thread of rationality left, maybe because he said himself “no more killing” (though he just killed a man minutes ago, but that shouldn’t count, should it? Was he supposed to let him go? To beat and rape other kids? Especially after seeing that photo? _No. That motherfucker can eat shit and rot in hell, he does not care_ ).

Five felt the chaos booming in his head, his vision blurring again. How many more time could he teleport? Once or twice, at most. Although he had avoided using power as much as he could during the fight. Quickest way out of this: take a patrol car, drive as far as he could, save energy, abandon the car when running into a checkpoint. The police was going to find the motel he stayed sooner or later, but he would have arrived before they did. In any case, he needed to go back and retrieve the briefcase…

“Don’t do anything stupid, mister.” Five opened the car door and sat on the driver’s seat, one hand still holding the gun at the last standing police officer. “I suggest you wait until I drive away before calling backups. The effective shooting range of this gun is approximately 120 yards and you better bet I’m a good shot.”

The last policeman did not respond. He did not move either.

Five drove away.

Since the road had been blocked for quite a while, there were no vehicles in sight, he could drive freely. The pedestrians on both sides were empty, as all bystanders had either run away or hid from all the gun fires. As a result, when a shadow of a figure slipped the edge of Five’s vision as he drove by, he had a second of doubt, but did not dwell on it.

The next second, a gigantic, dark crimson tentacle smashed the back window and thrusted in, torn through the patrol car from inside out, shooting it mid-air, before throwing it away, like a dumped cigarette butt.


	6. From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparrow!Ben: I am the master of the Ancient Ones, the caller of the Eldritch God and King of Cthulhu, you cannot defeat me...  
> Five: Load last save

5.

Five jumped at the last moment before the car was thoroughly destroyed by the tentacle. However, he miscalculated by a small margin because of panic and the space portal opened a little too far from ground. He fell headfirst, about six meters before hitting the croaked road surface. A blunt pain spread all over him. He was bleeding from nose and mouth as he stood up shakily.

No time to dwell on the pain now. The patrol car was wasted on the road kerb like some discarded broken toy, as the other tentacles started moving almost at the same time. Five dashed to the right, the nostalgia of it almost made him smile. He could recognise every tentacle, their shape and pattern, where they were from, their relative positions. He could recognise the first tentacle being the upper-right one, the second the neighbouring one. If he dodged quickly enough towards the right, highly likely that the rest were going to miss.

His assumption was correct.

Five sprinted along the walkway, glass windows shattered one after the other behind him as the stores were destroyed, brick walls crumbled, reinforcement steel cut in half, but he kept sprinting. He hadn’t felt this alive for a long time now. The gambling between life and death had shot him full of exhilaration.

Eventually, all the tentacles retreated. He had anticipated this as well since he knew very well Ben’s habit—he could only sustain the monster for so long before he needed a rest. A bit like his own limitation for space jump, but Ben needed less time to recover physically. Mentally, however, Ben needed far more time than he physically demanded to start using his power again. _His Ben_ at least. God knew what this Ben was capable of.

The Sparrow still wore his full uniform, the one they saw when they first arrived, with hands in his pocket, steady, determined, and confident—Obviously, this was not _his Ben_. Five thought. His Ben was never this determined. He always doubted himself. He was gentle and sensitive— _what did Reginald do to him in this timeline_?

“I told Dad it wasn’t a good idea to let the trouble loose.” Sparrow said.

“Oh really.” Five spat some blood on the ground, wiped his mouth and nose clean. “What did Dad have to say to your constructive criticism?”

“Well, Dad is too kind. Too soft.” Sparrow said. The combination of “kind”, “soft” and “Dad” astounded Five, almost made him sick again. “But he’ll understand I was right.”

“Listen, Ben.” Five held out one hand in a gesture to calm him. “I’m not your enemy here. I know Dad as well as you do, maybe even more. He couldn’t care less about a child rapist being dead. He will not care about some police officer passing out on the street for half an hour either. But he cares about you—your safety, not because he loves you, but because he doesn’t want to lose a useful pawn--”

“My name--” Sparrow cut him off loudly, “is Number One. If you call me by that stupid name one more time--”

“Ben…” Five said, his voice trembled. “I’m begging you…”

Sparrow did not reply. Instead, he unleashed his hell hounds one more time.

Since the age of six, Five had been “dispatched” to each sibling to act as the supportive role in training. His major “partners” were Luther, Diego and Ben, especially Ben. As Five still could not space jump at his own will, to forcibly activate his potential, Dad had teamed the physically smallest, power-wise most passive one with the power-wise most aggressive, volatile (although against its host’s will) sibling, to maximise the former’s athletic reflexes. If they were fortunate, out of pure survival instincts, Five’s power could be triggered as well. On the other hand, faced with the possibility of seriously hurting or killing Five, Ben would put in his outmost effort to control his power, though bearing insurmountable amount of stress and guilt in the meantime. For that reason, Five knew Ben’s power inside out. He knew all the weakness of the tentacles—or lack thereof—bullets could not hurt them. Sharp objects like knives or swords could only cause temporary damage. Even when severed, they grew back within seconds. The only attack window would be to wait for the portal to shut, tentacles retreat and to attack their host. Five also knew that Ben mostly relied on the four longest tentacles, although he could summon more, but others were short enough that unless one chose to fight him at close range, they’d be harmless. And no one would want to fight Ben close range.

First wave of attack, all four tentacles struck out. Five waited until the very last millisecond to jump away—any faster, one of the tentacles could have reacted and redirected. He reappeared from the Sparrow’s back, gun grip forward, about to hit the Sparrow on the head…but failed as a sudden pain exploded in his abdomen. The Sparrow did not turn, just raised his leg, and kicked him in the middle. His movement stopped for a second, and a second was long enough for a tentacle to flip around and wrap around his entire body.

“You think I didn’t do my research beforehand?” Sparrow Number One said, with a fierce, proud smile, raising Five up as he struggled against the inescapable trap. “You think I don’t know about your power? Dad told us already. He had been training us against people like you—bigots with powers, thinking they can do whatever they want with it.”

It started to feel hard to breath. The tentacle’s grab became tighter by the second and Five could sense his lungs from his chest. If it squeezed any harder, his rib would break. He tried teleporting but only got rejected from the space continuum. Of all possible instances, his power decided to bugger off at this moment. He couldn’t blink away, just trapped here, as air being sucked out of his lungs. And the person who was about to kill him slowly and painfully had the exact face of his beloved brother.

“Ben…” Five whispered with great effort, his voice grinded against his throat. “Please…just listen to me…

“I have warned you.” The Sparrow’s face was cold, unfamiliar, without a trace of sympathy. “If you call me by that stupid name one more time, I’ll tear you in half.”

He meant every word.

Another tentacle wrapped tight around Five’s feet and pulled. He could sense his muscles breaking off. The inner organs, with his body literally being stretched out into a long stripe, started to fall all over the places. His spine disconnected joint by joint, until it completely came off his waist. Five had never been clearer on the fact that he was going to die—a death that would be incredibly painful, miserable, and everlasting. He had seen people torn in half from their waist. They were never killed instantly, but survived for minutes, hours even. Their upper body would so desperately look for their lower body, but never actually found it. They might have been suffering from excruciating pain in their last moments in life, or they might not. Because, although Five had seen these people move, he had never heard them utter a single word.

His fists clenched out of extreme terror and shook violently, at the same time his mind started to spin in a fit of panic.

A thunderstorm bullets: his family dropped one after another—No, No. If this was the flashback they talked about, at least not this one. Did God really just show him the most painful memory right before his death? —The dark muzzle of a gun stared into him. Bullets shot through his body, twice. A phantom pain because the bullets did not exist. Muzzle did not exist. He had rewound all that.

He travelled through the flood of time and demanded it to turn backward.

Suddenly, Five was behind Sparrow again, gun grip forward, ready to strike. He took a few milliseconds to realise he did it again—he had rewound time. The energy used for rewinding time seemed to have come from a different branch than space jump—he should’ve noticed this at the barn. He had been shot multiple times in the torso, lost way too much blood, with zero reserve for any space jump, but somehow, he was still able to rewind time. The two abilities worked like parallel connection, independent of each other’s circuit. After the realisation, Five couldn’t help a smirk—because he knew he’d already won. No one could take on time itself.

The Sparrow kicked back, but Five dodged it—no new tricks for old dogs. Then he choked the Sparrow with a baton in hand because he knew Ben could only look up when he unleashed the monsters. The Sparrow was forced to bend over backwards, summoning one of his tentacles at the same time to sweep Five. Another rewind—only for a second—he pulled out a dagger he found from a cop’s gear and cut, with all his strength, the tentacle off. Sparrow screamed, not in agony (Ben did not share his neural system with his monsters, however he could feel their emotions) but in rage. He turned around; two tentacles engulfed him like a hurricane. Rewind another second, Five severed with deadly precision the two tentacles from their roots—they wiggled like the dumped tail of a gecko. They were going to grow back after a while, but not immediately, not within the next 30 seconds. If he cut off all tentacles within the next 30 seconds, he would win.

The last tentacle attacked. One second. Five counted. Only rewind one second.

He spun his body, using the momentum to swing his arms, and sawed off the fourth tentacle right next to the portal.

After that, he vanished from space.

Number One sensed a weight—not great but the entire body weight of teenage boy nonetheless—crushed him from behind, then someone grabbed him by the hair. A shining military dagger levelled on his neck.

“…Cheating bastard.” One snarked, spat in despise. “Go on. Do it. Like the psychopathic killer you are. Cut my throat like you did that poor guy because that’s who you are. A cold-blooded killer.”

Five’s hand tremored with the knife, but not because of anger.

He thought if he did not look at the Sparrow in his eyes—not look at Ben in his eyes—it’d be easier for him, but he was wrong.

_Don’t let your sentiment get in the way._ A voice in Five’s head demanded. _If he can attack you mercilessly like this, he’ll attack your family too. You must end him, right here, right now_.

“What’s the matter? What are you waiting for?” One hollered. “My body will grow back shortly. You won’t get a second chance.”

_He’s right._ The voice said. _Rewinding time is still a new trick. Who knows where your limit is? If his tentacles grow back, and your power goes out, that’s it for you._

_He’ll kill you._

_And he’ll kill every last one of your family._

Five’s hand tightened furiously against Sparrow’s head, lifting his neck so it was perpendicular to the edge of his blade, and pushed the blade in.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

The first tentacle started to grow back. Then the second, the third…

Five cursed and dropped the knife.

He couldn’t do it.

No matter what this person called himself: a sparrow, or number one.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He would never hurt Ben, one timeline or the other.

To him, there had always been just one Ben—His brother.

“Oh, look at you, Number One.” A voice came from above Five. “Getting crushed by a pubescent boy. What would Dad say about this?”

“Four…” Sparrow One hissed, then flipped around, trying to get Five off his back. But Five had already jumped away. He stood about three steps away from Sparrow No.1, looking up with a shocked expression.

Five people wearing the Sparrow Academy uniforms and black eye masks, plus a green cube, were floating mid-air, much like the early Umbrella Academy comics depicted. The difference was, the Umbrella Academy never actually had the ability to fly. The Sparrow Academy, however—as much as Five not willing to believe it but witnessing it with his own eyes—seemed to have concurred gravity itself.

“Stop teasing One.” A short, almost dwarf-like man said, his face completely burnt off for some horrible reason. “You know he always had a soft side.”

“Women and children, weakling and elderly.” A giggly girl with blonde hair carried on. “I won’t be surprised if he got assassinated while helping some old lady cross the street.”

“Or catch rabies by helping stary puppies.” A South-Asian man wearing a turban smiled. “He’s always soft with animals.”

“Maybe he saw some traits of kittens from this little boy in shorts?” The one floating the highest, a large blonde Caucasian male, not unlike Luther, continued. “Frankly, he does seem like a cat boy to me. Don’t you guys think so?”

The green cube made a noise, somewhat electronic, like those robots from the 80s movies—an unidentifiable cyber moan.

“Aw, Christopher.” The one called “Four”, a tiny-built girl with mousy grey hair sighed. “That was unnecessarily mean.”

Number One stood up, beating off dusts from his uniform, then turned to Five.

“This cat boy—" He smiled sarcastically. “is a hell of a cheating one, with that time manipulation and all.”

“That’s new.” The blonde woman said. “Have we seen that type of power? Probably not.”

“Doesn’t matter what power he’s got.” The man with a turban said. “No way he’ll get away from Six, yeah?”

“Don’t play your Ace card up front, Three.” The dwarf, Six, said. “Let’s see what he’s got.”

“My advice, kitty boy.” The blonde man said. “Surrender while you can, and we’ll spare your life, just this once…Or grant you a quick death.”

Five couldn’t believe what he just saw.

Whole crew of the Sparrow Academy was here, posing like an army. In fact, they looked more like a punk band that went out of time before they even became popular, unable to grasp the preference of their audience. They looked like a bunch of teenagers, already pregnant with unwanted children before reaching the end of puberty; or a group of nerds, thinking they had a breakthrough in science, all the while unaware of the actual scientific achievements from people with degrees they could never attain.

So this was the replacement Dad had found. Instead of the Umbrella Academy, he’d adopt them? These morons?

Five couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His hands tightened again, blue ripples propagating in time and space.

“No.” The Sparrow No. 1—Ben—tried to act high and mighty, but still showed a subtle sign of fear. “You can’t be…You don’t seriously think you can take on all of us at the same time…right?”

“Tell me, Number One.” Five demanded. “Is Daddy proud of you?”

Sparrow One was stunned by the question. He looked left and right, afraid that his siblings might sabotage his moment. However, he quickly gained his cool, and spoke with a steady voice. “Sure he is.”

“Well.” Five smiled, all teeth and dimple. “Soon he won’t be.”

6.

Diego and Vanya stepped out of the boxing ring and found themselves in a different world. It was as if they were transported into another timeline again.

“…What the hell just happened?” Diego murmured to himself.

Patrol cars roamed the streets like helicopters in a doomsday movie. Everyone looked on edge and scared. Then came the gunshot. People screamed and scattered, running into the closest building to hide. A few shop owners opened the door to look at what happened, only to close the door again after almost hitting a fleeing pedestrian.

“I saw it--” A homeless guy jammed the door of a convenience store, talking to the clerk who looked constipated, trying to hold the door shut. “That kid slid his throat, then puff…vanished, just like that…”

“…Five.” Vanya whispered.

“The fuck did he do?” Diego said, anxious and confused.

They ran against the flow, chasing after the sirens until they hit an alleyway—sealed by police tape. Two policemen stood in front of the scene, blocking all trespassers. Vanya saw nothing behind the seal, just a blotch of dark, purple blood stain. She felt her throat tightened.

“We gotta find him fast…” Diego said, trying to comfort himself. “Before it’s too late…”

“Diego…Diego!” Vanya dragged his sleeves. “I think I heard something…”

“No shit, Vanya.” Diego shouted. “Tell me something I don’t know. You could hear police siren miles from here…”

“No, not the siren.” Vanya continued. “Something with a higher frequency, like…like some machine, a laser…”

“A laser?” Diego said, confused. “You can hear lasers?”

Suddenly he stopped talking, because even if he couldn’t hear laser, he could see—a green cube, like a mono-colour Rubik’s cube, or a jade whiskey rock, was rising up as they spoke, higher than all the stores and apartments, higher than the highest hotel in the city, high as the next sun, with a white laser beam emitting from one of its corners.

Vanya’s eyes turned silver. She levitated herself, flying in the direction of the cube.

“Hey, Vanya, wait!” Diego yelled. “Son of a bitch…”

He finished cursing, collected his power, then began to run. On foot.

The siren was too loud. That was the one thought resonating in Vanya’s mind.

The siren was so loud it clouded inside her chest, growing heavier and heavier, clouds bouncing off each other, ready to unleash a storm, lightening and thundering from the impact. Pouring rain weighed down on a thin branch like snow, falling meteors. She held on shakily to all these sounds as she flew over buildings, the highest hotel, and its roof tanks, before she saw—in the middle of a wide, six lane road, six people wearing the Sparrow Academy uniforms fighting each other. Laser beam cut open the already broken road surface. It took Vanya a good few second to realise they were not fighting each other but a single, common enemy, in a somewhat chaotic harmony.

However, the enemy target was too small, too fast for Vanya to follow, she had to move closer. But judging from the random blue flash, she was sure it had to be Five.

She was preparing to land as she heard a weird, unintelligible sound, like those robots made in 80s Sci-Fi movies, when she realised the laser beam had stopped. A green cube rushed towards her, with shining bright light focused on one right angle.

The siren was too loud.

Vanya stretched out one hand. She wanted to grab the cube, finding out what it was, maybe by touching the material? Was it a weapon, or a computer? A robot? If it attacked, she could throw it away. But she reacted a little to rashly. As her hand came to contact with its surface, the green shell glowed, a low static burnt her, and she waved her had in a fit of panic. The cube flew out several feet like some used tissue, then dropped straight from the sky, plane-crashing onto the ground.

Vanya paid no further attention to that cube and concentrated on the battlefield underneath, trying to figure out where Five would portal out, and approached rapidly the moment a flash of blue appeared.

Five exited the space portal only to find the cover he had been aiming for was not there—a block of road structure blown up by the laser and inclined on the street. Ben must have moved it, or smashed it, because he had already taken care of the gravity manipulator so it couldn’t have been her (it was the blonde girl, No. 2). By taking her out, he had also neutralised the threat of No.3, the turban guy, because he was a healer and now had to concentrate on Two’s bleeding forehead. Aside from the green cube ( _where is it now?_ ) all of them had to fight him with their feet on the ground. He still had a military knife, a baton, a Glock with 12 rounds. If he allowed himself to shoot, he could have ended the fight a while ago, but he was not the only one holding back. Up until now, two of the Sparrows had not disclosed their powers yet—the tiny-build mousy-grey haired No. 4, and the heavily burnt No. 6. He decided to use the gun as the last resort.

Sparrow No.5, the big blonde guy looking like Luther—whistled the second he saw Five portal out. Tens of crows gathered from all over the city, soaring through the air in a single direction, as if they had just found the last-standing garbage bin in the world. Five hated these birds with a passion—in the Apocalypse, crows were the next in line to dethrone the roaches as toughest life form on earth. No weapon could help him right now. Five threw up his arms, covering his face and waited. If he could survive under the bird attack for several seconds and not get sucker punched by Ben, he should have enough strength to make two jumps, the first one out of the attack range and second one unto Sparrow Five’s shoulder. Then he could neutralise him, or take him hostage, leaving the battle before it concluded…

The birds did not attack as he anticipated. Five blinked from behind his arms and saw an invisible air shield extending in front of him, before exploded like a whirl of hurricane, blowing away the army of crows along with their puppet master. Only one person he knew had this kind of power. He raised his head, surprised at the sight of Vanya lowering from the sky.

“Five, are you alright?” She said worriedly, examining the blood on his mouth and nose.

“Vanya, how…”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone that day.”

Five didn’t know what to say, something along the line of “I didn’t blame you”, or “Thanks”, maybe “How did you find me”. But mostly he wanted to say “Good job Vanya. Look at these losers’ faces.”

“…What the actual hell?” Number Four struggled back onto her feet, spitting the sand out and rubbing her ribs. She was blown away several feet, knocking on a pedestrian fence in the process, then the fence was blown away with her. She looked up furiously at the sky. “Christopher what the hell? You could have warned us--”

But she didn’t find the cube there.

“Sorry, you are not talking about him, are you?” A Latin man with full beard and long black hair walked down the street from the other side, holding Christopher in his arm like he was a football. Christopher protested vaguely in a weak voice.

“Diego?” Not far from her, the cat boy and that silver-eyed woman from the sky called out at the same time.

“…Who the hell is this weirdo now.” Number One crawled out from underneath a truck, tentacles wrapped around the vehicle and torn it to pieces.

“He’s got Christopher!” Six shouted in panic.

“How did you get this whiskey rock?” Five asked.

“In case you forgot, my power is manipulating projectile of flying object.” Diego said, “And this thing is a flying object.”

“A laser beaming flying object.” Vanya added.

“Oh I think you blasted that function of him.” Diego said, then realised. “Holy shit, was it his…”

Five did not get it but Vanya was horrified.

“Hey assholes!” Sparrow Five yelled. The crows all gathered around him—what a fucking miserable power he’s got. Thought Five. _I’d rather born ordinary if I picked that card._ “Give our brother back or we’ll beat your ass!”

“Why don’t you come and get it, quarterback.” Diego yelled back as he threw Christopher out like a ball.

Christopher made some angry noises as he tried to gain back his aviation control, only to be forced into changing his plan halfway, spinning like a tennis ball, then shot straight into Sparrow Five’s chest after a round detour.

“Fuck!” He blurted out, catching Christopher at the last moment with his chest but got knocked down into a flip. He jumped back up, immediately trying to fight back, but was stopped by Four.

“Leave that loser to me.” The tiny girl snarked. “I’ve always had a thing for Latinos.”

“Sorry to disappoint but I already have a girlfriend.” Diego laughed back.

“Oh yeah?” Four kept her smile. “Then it’s fair game.”

She walked towards them. Five stood alerted. He had not seen Four’s power yet. But whatever it was, he had prepared to jump in any second…

Diego prepared faster. He threw two knives, blade cutting off tips the girl’s short hair—she dodged both knives with two swirls, graceful like a ballerina, then pointed out two fingers, right in between Diego’s brows.

She did not even touch him, he already fell.

“No, Diego!” Vanya screamed.

Waves of energy flooded out from her body. But Sparrow Four had seen it once. She threw herself onto the ground before the waves hit, avoiding most of the impact, while shouting to the back row: “Six—For God sake…Six! No point in holding back now, let’em see what you’ve got! Fuck her up!”

Five crouched down on the ground, trying to cover up Diego’s limp body as much as possible while looking in the direction of Sparrow Six with a terrified stare. He was too far from Six, Five thought. And under Vanya’s energy wave there was no way he’d move any closer. He could shoot him from here, but the distance was still too far for an assured lethal shot, and Ben might block the shot anyway. And with Diego out cold like this…he switched back to his brother, patting him on the cheeks and calling his name—Diego’s eyes were wide open, mouth gasping for air but breath so light he could barely hear it. He showed no reaction to Five’s voice or touch--the fuck did that Sparrow do to him?

However, as long as Vanya’s power still worked, no one could get close to them. He could teleport, right behind Six…

But Six showed no intention of attack. He cowered on his stomach like everyone else, behind some wasted cars, away from the bulk of Vanya’s energy, at the same time, Five saw something in his hands—a chunk of stone, about the size of his palm, with sharp edges. Was he trying to _Stone_ them? Before Five could think, Six held the stones in both hands and smacked hard on his own ears.

Vanya cried out the second the strike landed, covering up her ears in agony as she fell on her knees. The hurricane of energy waves stopped instantly.

Five felt as if he was the one who took the hit, watching blood gushing out of Vanya’s ears and into her hands. He ran up to her before his mind could process.

“Vanya--” He tried to move her hand away to see the injury better. “How bad is it? Talk to me.”

“Five…” Vanya breathed heavily, eyeing him with a blank expression, almost petrified, deepening his worry. Then she whispered, as if to herself. “I can’t hear…I can’t hear you.”

That was the moment when fear finally took over him.

Five turned to look at Diego, who was completely still, eyes open, mouth twitching but could not utter a coherent sound. And Vanya…He put a shaky hand on her bleeding ear, could only pray this would not last long, that she would not lose her hearing because of it…

On the opposite side, the Sparrows had regrouped. It seemed Two had also recovered from Three’s healing and joined the fight once more. But everything was different from the start of the fight. He was not alone anymore. His brother and sister were here with him, wounded, completely lost the ability or reason to fight…

He grabbed Vanya by the wrist and Diego by the shoulder, then, before Ben could make any last sarcastic remark, jumped out of this mess he made himself.


End file.
